


Inevitability, know thy name

by AtomicMint



Series: This change is inevitable - except for when it isn't [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble, Everyone needs a magical animal guide - this one has teeth!, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Gods, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Magic, Mystery, Non-Chronological, Spark Stiles Stilinski, The nogtitsune is an asshole. But he's cute, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicMint/pseuds/AtomicMint
Summary: After Gerard, Stiles makes a choice. Whether or that choice was the right one or not, well that remains to be seen. All he knows is that he's tumbling down a sharp incline and there seems to be no end in sight ( or maybe he's been falling for longer than he thought).This is the tale of a boy who runs with wolves, the god that shadows his step, and the fox that lingers in the moments between. There is no happy ending - but Stiles is trying his best.
Relationships: Nogitsune & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski & Stiles Stilinski
Series: This change is inevitable - except for when it isn't [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024054
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	1. All of our troubles are make-believe

**Author's Note:**

> The time has come for me, like most Stiles fans, to try my hand at the Stiles-is-a-bamf trope. I very much enjoyed writing it :)
> 
> In terms of warnings throughout this piece: Manipulation / canon typical violence / memory issues / swearing / supernatural ethics 
> 
> Title is from Pendulum - nothing for free

* * *

**.5.**

He is nobody's first choice, it's an ingrained rule. A simple fact of life that Stiles has known from a young age.

In the wake of his mother's death, his dad stands at a cross road. Signposts leering down at him as a delicate mist descends to obscure his - their - future. Responsibility to the left and freedom and distraction to the right. Stiles isn't surprised when the sheriff casts his gaze to the side and picks up the bottle.

* * *

**.14.**

Gerard’s kick is expected but that's not enough to stop it from being painful. Like a professional footballer leaping forward to punt him right in the chest.

Stiles curls up tight, wrapping his arms around his ribs in a weak search for protection as air is forcefully ejected from his lungs.

One of Gerard’s hunter friends, the one with the frown - he looks like a Mark, Stiles is gonna stick by that, Mark the frowny hunter, probably hasn't been on a date in years with a frown like that - takes offence. Leaning down to grip at the teenager's wrist and pull him upright. Balanced precariously on his shaking knees. Mark must feel like such a big and powerful man, Stiles internally scorns, pushing around a teenager.

Hot liquid dribbles down his chin, he's not sure whether it's blood or saliva and at this point, he's too weak to care. It's not like Lydia is about to critique his style or anything like that. Besides, his lower jaw is still aching from the blow that got him into this shitty situation to begin with. He thinks he might be missing a tooth. Hopefully not one near the front. 

Footsteps echo across the basement as his captor draws near but Stiles refuses to cave and look up - it's the little things that matter in times like this. He instead settles with following Gerard's movement out of the corner of his eyes, tipping his jaw downwards and hoping his nose isn't bleeding _too_ bad.

“Don’t bother hiding.” Gerard says with a smile in his voice, shoes scuffed and splattered with blood as he bypasses Stiles for the time being. Lingering at a the metal table - sufficiently creepy, Stiles ranks it a seven on the creepiness scale - and trailing his fingers across the array of tools thrown haphazardly across its surface. Ultimately, he chooses the red hilt of the crowbar, rusted and bent out of shape - probably from previous victims of his favoured kind of hospitality. Stiles is sure Gerard makes lots of friends this way. Excellent service.

Gerard tests the weight of it between his hands, giving it a few test swings that have Stiles automatically flinching back. Still awkwardly held in place by the grumpy Mark. It embarrassing, he can't help but think, swallowing back a groan when Mark tightens his grip on Stiles' wrist. So incredibly embarrassing, to fear this fucking geriatric. “You’re our guest for the evening, Mister Stilinski. It would be rude of us to ignore you, or, god forbid, allow you to crawl your way back to the monsters you call _friends_.”

Gritting his teeth, Stiles' head whips up as he spits in the patriarch's direction, delighted when a thick splatter of crimson dyed saliva lands on the man's check with a wet smack. he'll be winning contests with aim like that.

“The only monster I see.” He snarls, triumph giving him a second wind and offering him the chance to continue his verbal assault. “Is the old dude stood right in front of me. When did beating on teenagers suddenly turn fashionable? Was one mid-life crisis not enough for you?”

“How brave.” Gerard retorts, reaching into his pocket for a tissue to wipe away the bloody saliva staining his cheek. He’s not smiling now. “Or is ‘foolish' more accurate? What can you possibly gain from antagonising me, Stilinski?” 

“Well I would say pride... or the moral high ground. But...” Stiles cocks his head to the side, casting his gaze away as if in deep thought before refocusing on the old man and baring his teeth in a thin mockery of a smile. "Let’s face it. Between you and me, I’ve already got those covered.”

“If that’s what you want to believe?” Gerard says, raising his eyebrows and he nods at Mark, “Then I am afraid that we’ve reached an impasse.” He lifts his rusted crowbar and gestures for the hunter to heft Stiles up into a standing position. Ignoring the Stiles' groan of pain at the new position, and subsequent strain on his legs, as he stalks forward.

Pleasantly, he continues: "I hope my actions will speak louder than words.”

The crack of Stiles' rib, as Gerard’s first swing connects, will haunt the boy’s dreams for years to come.

(Will shape the desperation that shadows his footsteps, as he delves deeper into the supernatural, for years to come.)

* * *

**.19.**

They are in the preserve, shoes sinking into mud with leaves tangled in their hair and clothes, when they finally find their monster of the week.

And really, Stiles isn’t even exaggerating when he says ‘of the week’ – their supernatural problem is getting out of hand… maybe it’s Derek’s animal magnetism drawing them in. It certainly isn’t the Hale’s sense of humor.

Ducking under an errant branch, and running straight into another, he stumbles forward to stand next to his best friend. Bracing a hand on Scott's shoulder as he catches his breath.

"We got it?"

("We?" He hears Jackson scoff from somewhere off to the right. Derision coating his voice. "What help have you been Stilin-" 

Wisely - mature and super adultish, his dad will be proud - Stiles ignores the other teen.)

Scott nods, leaning into Stiles' palm for a moment before he slides away.

Water trickling between Stiles' fingers.

Lips twitching downward, Stiles ignores the ache in his chest and follows the pack's gaze. Eyes widening when he finally catches sight of their prey.

It feels weird to be the predator in this situation - in any situation really.

Even weirder when their prey is one of _the_ original hunters.

Lydia hums, lip curling, she's probably just realised how much mud is currently coating her expensive big-brand leggings. "It's kind of… underwhelming."

"Not every creature has to look like a massive monster." Derek scowls from where he's pressing their foe down into the ground, somehow - even coated in sweat and dirt and all other kinds of nasties - he manages to convey supreme disdain. "That doesn't make him any less dangerous."

Lydia rolls her shoulders and twists her head away in reluctant acknowledgement. Retreating back to Jackson's side. Scott, still stood next to Stiles - with a conspicuously Stiles-shaped muddy handprint left behind on his shoulder that he hasn't noticed yet - stares down at the matted fur of the white coated beast. Biting his lip.

"So." Stiles wonders into the awkward silence left in Lydia's wake. "What do we do with a member of the wild hunt?"

In the middle of the clearing, held beneath Derek's weight, the corpse hound yelps. High and shrill. At the sudden noise, Derek startles, claws accidently sinking deep into its' flank. It twists, claws gouging trenches into soft mud, and rears and writhes and bucks. Stiles watches as golden blood drips to the forest floor, etching delicate designs into autumnal leaves. It's not howling, luckily, they’ve all learnt from the corpses what happens when you give this hound enough time to howl. Instead it offers a futile struggle, the whites of its' eyes bright as it shakes its head. Drool flying from its gaping maw and red speckled teeth gleaming in the low light.

It's not everyday that somewhere bears witness to the Cŵn Annwn - even if this one is by its' lonesome.

(Stiles feels something peculiar crawl up his spine, electricity thrumming through his veins, as he stares down at the beast. Something lingering at his ear - whispering softly that everything about this situation is _wrong_.)

The hound attempts to growl up at the alpha werewolf as Derek returns to his attempts at forcing it to submit - pressing it closer to the ground with a snarl - without a shred of remorse. Alpha werewolf indeed, Stiles thinks, features unconsciously twisting into a frown, confused by his own reluctance.

He should be celebrating right now. He knows exactly what this animal is capable. Has seen the aftermath in the empty eyes of the hound's two victims and read the books that sing praises to its' death bestowing howl. Stiles has done, all the research. The Cŵn Annwn are omens of death - twisted and _wrong_ creatures of darkness. Three barks enough to stop a man's heart. Not some innocent dog, no matter how desperate it looks. No matter the fear that infuses its' eyes as it looks in his direction.

(Why is it looking right at him - ?)

It whines, low in its throat and Stiles clenches his teeth and flexes his hands. Coils them into fists and then forces them loose once more. Drags his shoe through sodden leaves and mud and tells himself not to make another mistake. Stiles is way to fond of mistakes. He has a problem - an addiction to! - mistakes. He _can't afford to -_

"Stop."

(Goddamn it. Just. God fucking damn it.)

The pack turns, almost as one, to stare at him and only then does Stiles realise he's spoken. He swallows back a groan and resists the urge to smack himself, met with expressions that range from confusion to incredulity. He gets the latter - this is definitely a be-incredulous-at-Stiles-moment. One of his finest. 

Nevertheless, he squares his shoulders and plants his feet deeper into the mud. He's got himself into a mess, he might as well see it through.

"It needs to die." Lydia rolls her eyes, re-introducing herself to the conversation and slipping her phone out of her pocket. Long red nails tap tapping away at her screen. This time she doesn't draw near for a closer peek. She doesn’t even spare the corpse hound a cursory glance as she tugs Jackson closer with her other hand and leans into his warmth. Stiles wonders why she bothered to show up - she clearly doesn't want to be here. But do any of them want to be here? Truly? "It's not a _real_ dog, Stilinski. It’s a monster. A monster that hurt people - that tried to kill us once it realised we were after it. Think about it this way, if it caused this much chaos here - what could it do in a city?"

She has a point, his pragmatism hisses, tapping at his head like a particularly vexed mother in law. It's not even as though Stiles has ever claimed to be a good guy. He doesn't _do_ mercy. Especially not when the thing he's faced with has perfect human-biting teeth. So he shouldn't have a problem telling Derek to just put it out of its' misery. They have enough problems - there's no room for another. So this should be simple.

(Should be, could be, isn't.)

"It's just. " Stiles stares down at the dog, its' ears pricked as it directs another glance up toward him. Obviously listening. It almost looks... hopeful. But who knows, maybe Stiles is just projecting his own abandonment issues - the ones that totally don't exist. "Lost. it's just lost and alone. Scared. C'mon guys, look at those big eyes, it'll be like killing Bambi. The good guys can't kill Bambi. "

Nearby, Scott flinches, conviction wavering as his eyes flash between Stiles and the dog. He’s always been a sucker for animals in pain. Stiles can only hope that his friend stays true to his roots and bows down to his guilt.

“Well?” Derek suddenly hisses out, panting through his sweat – the dog must be really strong – glaring up at Stiles, “If we’re not killing it, what else are we going to do with it?”

(Later, Stiles will realise that this moment was one of those turning points. A cross road of his own (a wrought iron gate, creaking open) at one end, the pack. At the other -

But he'll only realise this later.

Much later.

Too late.)

"I'll take care of it?"

* * *

**.17.**

"I'd like to get to know you better," says Peter Hale to Stiles Stilinski with a roguish grin that twists his face into something that's almost human. This, perhaps, is scarier than anything else. Because Peter Hale is, before he is wolf or murderer or victim, decidedly human. Maybe it's the human part that Stiles hates the most. 

He stares up at the man who held his life in his hands. Stares up at the man who honoured a whispered denial, who looked at Stiles and – possibly – saw through some of the layers.

(Threatened him and warned him and growled and prowled and (fire, burning bright and true and oh so fierce) died.)

"Maybe." Says the boy to the wolf, "Just cool it on the creeper factor, Zombie Wolf."

"Well that." Says the wolf to the boy. "Sounds exhausting."

Life, Stiles knows, is all the more fun for its risks.

* * *

**.18.**

His dad cares about Stiles, and Stiles cares about his dad.

That’s never been up for debate; they’re Stilinski men. Loyalty has always been second nature.

They just... they have a hard time showing it. Their texts careful to avoid any real issues – complain about healthy food and not the many bottles in the bin beneath your desk – and their touches tactical and distant. Care is his dad worrying about his car, checking the brakes with an almost religious tenacity before thumping him on the back and heading to work. Warmth is the burns on the tips of Stiles' fingers as he pulls the lasagna from the oven and sets a plate in front of his father, the quiet moments between bites. The unspoken comfort that lingers in the space between them.

Stiles never thinks that his dad doesn’t care.

Distance is just safer.

Easier.

(Never healthier though.

Who really cares about _that_ though.)

* * *

**.10.**

"You done the homework yet?" 

Scott gapes around a mouthful of popcorn, his character on screen careening off a cliff. “Dude.” He says, garbled. “What the hell. There’s homework?”

“Why am I not surprised that you didn’t remember.” Stiles replies, rolling over on the bed to face his friend. Abandoning his highlighters and textbook to laugh at the back of Scott’s head. Stiles has already finished the assignment- all he’s doing is brushing up on the topics he’s a bit shaky on. No matter what his asshole of a teacher tells him – Stiles is good at science. His grades are enough of a reminder. “It’s biology, Harris set extra, remember?”

“Oh no.” Scott realises, throwing his head back to smack against Stiles’ bed frame as he swallows down his popcorn and groans. His muscles are probably aching, Stiles acknowledges with a wince. Finstock pushed them extra hard, shouting something about the upcoming matches, even though the two of them are destined to never leave the bench. “I’m screwed.”

“Yep.”

“I’m worse than screwed. I’m fucked.”

“Yep.”

“And not even in a good way.”

“… Ewwwww. Bro no.” Stiles presses the back of his hand to his head, swooning. “Please mind your language, my awkward and innocent virgin ears simply can’t take it.”

Scott, well used to Stiles’ antics by this point, easily ignores him.

“Stiles?” His best friend pleads instead, awkwardly twisting his upper body around to rest his chin on the mattress and stare up at Stiles with puppy-dog eyes. “Help me?”

“Dude, you need to learn some responsibility. Your actions have consequences. You’ll never learn anything otherwise.”

“Stilessssss.”

Stiles levers himself up and crosses his arms. Raising his eyebrows.

“Sti –”

Unable to deal with his best friend’s pout and beseeching gaze, Stiles is quick to deflate. As he always does.

“Fine.” He sighs, huffing a laugh when Scott cheers and leaps up. Upending the popcorn bowl on his lap and sending kernels flying across the carpet as he throws himself on top of Stiles.

Stiles cackles past the ache of Scott’s elbow as it digs into his ribs, falling back against the mattress as he shoves at his asthmatic friend. “Dude! Get off! You’re heavy!”

“Never!”

* * *

**.13.**

Derek's confused, when Stiles refuses to bow. To back down. Even when his claws are at the human's throat, even when the bodies mount up. Danger peering down at them through a sniper's scope.

Eventually, he throws the thoughts to the back of his head. Disregarding the mystery for the thrill of the fight that rests at the edges of Beacon Hill's borders.

After all, the alpha reassures himself, what's the worst this human can do?

A lot, as it turns out - (the thin band of silver gleams as she drifts closer)

* * *

**.20.**

Stiles is unable to restrain his hiss of pain as he shifts on his seat. The movement jarring the raw scrapes that form a trail across his spine. His flinch only succeeds in jolting his wrist, his bones groaning in protest at the rough treatment.

Isaac twists slightly in his seat, throwing a look to Stiles over his shoulder that almost qualifies as concerned. Stiles waves him off with a weak grin. Oddly thankful for the scarf maniac's attention. It makes a change, to feel as though someone might care.

Still, Scott’s ears don’t so much as twitch as the beta wolf’s eyes follow the scratch of Allison’s pen to paper. Catching on her calloused fingers as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before moving to trace the curve of her throat. There's an intimate heat to his gaze, Stiles has to look away.

He doesn’t spare a thought for Stiles; somehow this hurts more than the bruises ever will.

* * *

**.21.**

"You can leave, dude." Stiles tells the Cŵn Annwn. Daring to press a flat palm against the ghost dog's head and smooth back soft white fur. "Use those powers of yours to find the Wild Hunt. I'm sure they miss you."

Amber eyes peer up at him before the dog growls, low but not aggressive. There's a strange sort of intelligence lingering in the depths of the corpse hound's eyes, a supernatural understanding that makes Stiles uncomfortable. Urging him to take a step back, shut up and put some pace between himself and this predator. He does neither - he's never claimed to be sensible. Even in the face of something like this. 

"Or you could stay." He says, sighing past the lingering ache of the Cŵn Annwn's attention. It'll pass, he tells himself, it's temporary, "Not like I can stop you anyway." 

The hound’s answering rumble is nothing short of smug.

* * *

**.23.**

Instinct leads Stiles through the forest and, at his back, the teenager feels the weight of a thousand eyes. Tension thickens the preserve's atmosphere. A string pulled taut as the wood seems to hold its collective breath.

Stiles understands when, after following the winding path for a moment longer, a clearing is revealed. The only shocking thing about it is how unremarkable it is. Nothing more that a haggard glade with some twisted ash trees guarding its' entrance and a stump, the remains of what would've been a large, ancient, tree, lingering at its centre. 

(He should turn away and leave.)

Upon the stump, sits a man.

Or rather, Stiles realises, after a closer look. More likely a being wearing the facsimile of a man, with a pale stag-skull mask hiding his face from view.

As soon as he recognises the man’s inhumanity, whatever strange instinct led him to this place dissipates. Leaving him shaking and strangely empty. Forced into a situation he has no control over. Swallowing back his nerves, Stiles tries to take a step back and finds himself unable to move. An attempt to reach for his phone is made impossible by then invisible force pressing down on his limbs. Holding them close to his body.

(He should turn and leave. Now.)

He. Can't. Move.

Desperate, he tosses has head back to howl – it'll be rough and human but he's allowed to hope that Derek will be sulking about near the ruins of his house – and finds himself without a voice.

Sound lingers in his throat, cloying and poisonous as it presses against his teeth and begs for some kind of escape. Stiles is left to choke on a sharp exhale as his eyes widen and heartbeat falters. Overcome by the sudden and stark vulnerability. After a long and panicked moment he manages to reach up to grasp at his throat, fingers twisted into claws, and force himself to cough. Relieved to find his voice has almost immediately returned.

Most likely, Stiles realises, all of this is the man's doing.

Which means that, unfortunately, he is going to have to play along.

Slowly, he eases himself down to the ground, faltering before he copies the man’s posture and sits cross-legged. Hands loosely clasped together over his lap in a weak attempt to hide his shaking fingers.

"Poison." says the man, easily ignoring Stiles reluctance and the entire scene he’s just born witness to, power echoing every word. "Poison has sunken into roots, blades have sunken into bark, disdain has sunken into the hearts of man and beast alike."

Its an interesting first sentence, to say the least. Stiles forces himself to brush past his confusion, swallowing as his mind remains fixated on the horrific feeling of losing his voice.

"Disdain?" He manages around a dry throat, voice hoarse. A little curious despite himself – well, he’s always known he’s an idiot with no self-preservation instincts.

The man inclines his head slightly, and Stiles gets the feeling that he’s pleased with Stiles’ participation. Stiles feels like he’s been thrown back into middle school. "Truth has been warped and discarded in the face of falsity. Men choosing to ignore the old ways and instead fall back to the familiar escape of fear. This Nemeton was innocent, but a sprout in the wider scheme of all things, and yet humanity saw fit to tear it down. To strip it of its power and to attach foreign entities to its core. All in the name of fear, and names are powerful things, Mieczyslaw."

The man stands, furs shifting with the movement as he slowly advances. Footsteps boundless and gait graceful.

(He should turn and leave. Now. Fast.)

Stiles remains in place, he doubts he can move, even if he wants to.

"Take, will you, responsibility for this attachment?" The man asks, head tilting to the side as blank holes stare at Stiles from within the skull. "Responsibility for the acts of your human predecessors?"

"Well I don't want them... Do I have a choice?" Stiles wonders, watching as the being's shoulders shake as though he is holding back laughter

"Of course not." Announces the masked man before, without warning he lunges forward, hand trailing black tar, and plunges his fist through Stiles' chest, curving his other arm around the teenager in a mockery of an embrace.

His fingers clutch at the boy's slowly beating heart.

Stiles makes an aborted movement; tries to flinch back. Paling, horrified, as he stares down to the arm disappearing into his chest. Disgust simmering alongside a strange sort of fascination – he really is weird – in the pit of his stomach. It doesn't seem real - shouldn't be possible. Somehow he doesn't doubt for a moment.

(There's tar in his head, his hear, his mouth and his throat. Sinking through his skin and coiling across his bones, through his veins.)

The masked man leads closer, pulling Stiles further into his arms.

"Show me your worth, Mieczyslaw." he breathes.

Before he faints, the last thing Stiles hears is short laughter, genuine amusement colouring the tone of the man who isn't a man.

(He should turn away and leave.)

( ~~He never stood a chance~~ )

* * *

**.0.**

The baby giggles in delight, eyes wide and gleaming as he reaches a pudgy hand up towards its companion. Clumsy fingers scraping across bone as he coos. Golden light reflects in his amber eyes as the figure stretches out a hand of their own. Sparks dancing across his bare hands and arcing towards the child. Eagerly embracing his curiosity and wonder the child wiggles his feet, trying to edge closer.

The energy almost seems to cherish his rapture, coiling around his limbs and sinking beneath the thin fragility of his human skin to linger in his bones. Offering a feline stretch as it settles into his veins and wraps itself around his hummingbird heart.

The figure huffs a short breath of almost laughter, a toss of their head, casting an abstract and twisted shadow of the wall behind him. Their clothes, heavy and cumbersome, rustle with the movement before they dismiss their errant magic in favor of ruffling the small shock of hair standing proud and lonely on the infant's head. There's something cautious in how they lean closer, other hand moving to cup the baby's cheek.

"I see." Says the figure, the man. "I understand."

The baby smiles.


	2. So looking for answers, if only one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning - unreliable narrator, hallucinations

* * *

**.27.**

_The room is spinning around Stiles' head, lights flickering as he lets his head fall slack against the back of the couch. There's grass between his toes when he clenches them, faint birdsong filtering through trees that aren't even there as he tilts his head. Staring up at the stairs, or is it the locker room with voices echoing and the squeak of sneakers on the gym floor. Swallowing back the bile that rises in his throat. He wipes at the spit gathered on his lips and presses a palm to his chest. Reassured by the rhythmic rise and fall._

_(Everything is wrong, he doesn't know where he is, but - he does?)_

_Scott bounces around a corner that isn't there, clenching a bow in their fist and walking with the careful tread of the Sherriff's boots before falling into Jackson's familiar strut. Poison licking at his heels._

_"Something's changed." It's Peter who speaks, trailing a cold hand through Stiles' short tresses. "You've changed."_

_"Is that a bad thing?" Asks the teenager, casting his eyes upward, malicious intent colouring his gaze yellow. No, that's not right. His eyes are brown. They've always been brown. "Will you leave, Peter?"_

_"Never." Peter assures him, leaning closer and smiling. He's seated across from him - or is he at the counter with his elbows braced against cool slate - and Stiles can hear the wolf's heart. Beating away like a war drum. Stiles shouldn't be able to hear it, shouldn't be able to see Peter when the man is stood in the kitchen, or is he on the couch or is he... But somehow none of that matters right now. "I'll remain for as long as you want me, Stiles. No matter the form you take."_

_Stiles stares up (across at, moves his head to look behind, looks down at the head in his lap and) at him and (waits for the wolf to open his maw to) slowly stretches his mouth open into a smile. Licks his dry lips and bites down on the urge to run._

_"It can't be seen, can't be felt, can't be heard and can't be smelt. It lies behind stars and under hills, and empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after, ends life and kills laughter. What is it?" He absentmindedly reaches up (across, down) to clutch at Peter's arm. Or is he clenching the leather of the seat, perhaps digging his nails into his duvet. He doesn't know where he is._

_(Stiles does not understand. He just doesn't understand. Where is he.)_

_"The dark." Answers the wolf, as he digs his claws into Stiles' hair, reaches across to grip at Stiles' chin, pushes off of the counter and prowls near. "Stiles?"_

_"Yes, Peter?"_

_"Wake up."_

Stiles blinks awake with a cool weight settled across his stomach that he spares a baleful glare.

“I hate you.” He says.

Unsurprisingly, the shadow doesn’t reply.

It seems amused.

* * *

**.24.**

"No." His dad attempts, peering from Stiles to the great hound that lays across his son's bed. Head cushioned on the boy's lap and white fur gleaming. "Goddamn it, Stiles, we've talked about this. Neither of us have the time to look after a pet. Remember the great hamster debate of 2007?"

The sheriff reaches up to pinch at the bridge of his nose as amusement bleeds into his son's posture.

"Yes." Stiles refutes, comfortable in the knowledge that his dad won’t be able to chase his new friend away. "And I could never forget the great hamster debate. Which I clearly won, by the way. Just because you pulled out the parental responsibility notebook."

"You mean your homework folder?"

"It goes by many names, Dad. The only way to counter it's malicious power is to -"

"Stiles." John raises the dreaded eyebrow, leaving Stiles to settle back against his wall, stroking his fingers through the hound’s fur, and raise his own eyebrow. 

"Dad." He drawls, before losing some of the sass and flapping his hand through the air. "It's not that big of a deal anyway, Dad. He's housetrained, his old owners specialised in, uh -" He shares a lucrative look with the dog. "Search and rescue? I'll pay for him anyway, so all you'll see of him is his hair on the carpet."

"Search and rescue?" Shaking his head, John sighs. "Does the mutt even have a name?"

Stiles blinks, head tilting to the side, before his amusement seems to once more rear its ugly head. He knows the war is already won; they both do.

"Hunter." He smiles, stroking one of the dog's odd red ears. "His name is Hunter." 

* * *

**.26.**

"Have you seen them?" Asks Derek, once and only once. A sort of anxious desperation forcing him to confront Stiles.

The teenager leans against Roscoe, arms crossed as he stares up at the wolf. There's a low hum of activity from the school behind them as teenagers flee the building. Off to play games an avoid their homework. God does Stiles wish he was among them. But maybe not - he'll take a werewolf over Harris any day. 

Derek looks pale in the sunlight, drawn in a way he hasn't been since Gerard was throwing his puppet strings around. He hasn't lost weight, his werewolf metabolism and eating nothing but fast food must be good for something, but there's something crazed in his eyes. A desperate yearning for information on his missing betas. Both Erica and Boyd had fled, days ago, in search of a new pack. At least, according to Peter at least. It's almost pathetic how desperate Derek still is, to gain the loyalty and approval of two teenagers. 

In the past, things might have been different, Stiles knows.

For all of their differences, Derek and he share many similarities. Their desire to protect their own being the most glaringly obvious.

(Peter likes to tell Stiles that he would be a good wolf, that his desire to protect his family would strengthen his bonds - that his ruthlessness would drive their pack into success. A wolf is only as strong as their pack, he often lectures, and understanding that fact is the difference between a good alpha and a great one.

Stiles likes to tell Peter to shut up with the hypotheticals and give him more books already.)

Unfortunately, for Derek, Stiles has already made a choice. It's not a nice one, and it's not a generous one. It's not the sort of decision that the Stiles from before this whole mess would subscribe to. But it’s not his place to fix all of Derek’s issues. No matter how much pity he feels.

Pity is not pleasant for anyone involved.

"Sorry, sour wolf," he says, shrugging and ignoring as despondency casts a dark shadow over the Alpha's handsome features. A shadow matched by the dark fur collar coiled around Stiles' own neck, licking it's vulpine chops and leaning closer to Derek's angst. "I haven't heard anything."

With nothing more to say, Stiles turns. Ducking his head down as he gently nudges the alpha out of the way - surprised when Derek allows the movement - and climbing into his car. The familiar roll of the engine beneath him is a comfort. 

Stiles doesn't look back as he drives, something about the whole scene seems... final.

* * *

**.28.**

"You are progressing as well as I predicted." The deer masked man observes, folding one leg over the other and propping his head up on a closed fist. The mask leers down at Stiles, it's freaking creepy. "How impressive, Mieczyslaw."

"Impressive?" Stiles snorts, throwing himself down to lay on thick grass, staring up at the unnaturally bright sky. He’s already tried to escape the clearing. Running through the gaps in the trees only to blink and find himself stood beside the man. Shoulders heaving from the exertion and left with nothing to show for it. Somehow the masked asshole manages to exude smug satisfaction as Stiles’ frustration grows. "What’s impressive would be you taking care of your own problems, dude."

At least he’s able to move this time - that’s one step better than before. Being able to do nothing but stand there, with no control over his own limbs and no clue to if he'll even survive the next minute... Stiles doesn’t ever want to feel like that again.

Deer mask has the gall to laugh, youthful voice cracking with old age partway through in deference to his obvious humour.

Stiles clenches his fists.

"Oh, I'd forgotten how much I like you," he says, paying no mind when Stiles' brow furrows at the strange wording. “I already knew you had spirit, Mieczyslaw, but this is delightful. You speak honest emotion in the face of a stronger adversity. In some this may lead to overconfidence, but I do not believe you shall fall to the thrall of such hubris."

"Yeah, sorry but you're not exactly endearing yourself to me, right now."

Deer mask pauses, tilting his head again. "Am I not? Is my support not... appreciated?"

"Oh no, Your support is appreciated, super creepiness and all.” Stiles sneers, “But I'd rather you keep it, and your problems, to yourself."

"Too late," sings the masked figure, moving to lean over Stiles, shifting his mask higher to reveal lips pulled into a wicked grin. One startlingly green eye glinting with languid amusement and the other left as just an empty hole, cracked ever so slightly open to reveal a dark abyss. Stiles – who looked though his dad’s files when he was just a kid – doesn’t flinch. He's not sure he wants to meet something capable of hurting this man. "My problems have become yours, dear human of mine." The man pokes him in the forehead, laughing when Stiles dares to swat at his hand. "I have elected you as my representative. In the face of the common beast."

"Wait - what!?" Stiles rushes to sit up, nearly butting heads with the bone mask in his haste. “Excuse me? What the hell is that supposed to mean, dude.”

"Representative." Repeats the man, now crouching before Stiles, mask readjusted to cover his face and the flicker of feigned humanity he had offered. "For those without discernible magic you shall be my mouthpiece, the one to spread my will, the one to pass my judgement and my wrath. My emissary. My chosen. My –" possessive intent, framed with something almost melancholic, edges around the man’s words, framing them with power, as the mask looms closer to Stiles, "– puppet."

"Bold of you," Stiles breathes, swallowing back a fearful tirade. This wouldn’t be a good time to fall into one of his mostly nonsensical speeches. He’s smart enough to recognise that. "To assume I would want _anything_ to do with the guy that shoved this thing into my body."

"Oh that? Do you see the creature that now dwells within your vessel as a source of evil? Of malignance and chaos? Because, I assure you –" Behind his mask the man appears to curl his lip, laughing in the face of Stiles' horror. "– You haven't seen anything yet, Mieczyslaw."

* * *

**.22.**

Under his bed, Stiles keeps a plain black rucksack. A cheap old thing that he'd picked up in a charity shop years ago. Inconspicuous in it's uniformity. 

He's equipped it well though, lining the pockets with small wads of cash and nabbing a few fake id's, that look vaguely like him, from some of the older evidence lockers. His dad insists on buying him a good survival knife and a first aid kit for his ninth birthday - you know. Just in case. So he shoves those in too.

He's ready to run, prepared as only a cop's kid can ever be.

Not yet, Stiles thinks, staring up at his ceiling as his latest bruises fester and coil beneath his skin. The Cŵn Annwn’s head is a familiar weight across his chest.

But perhaps soon.

* * *

**.30.**

Stiles spends hours upon hours crouched in the burnt husk of the Hale house, pouring over tomes thicker than his head, before he even dares to thinks but activating his first rune.

It’s out of character of him, he’ll be the first on admit that. He recognises – you’re forced into an awful lot of self-reflection when thrown headfirst into the supernatural world – that he’s a spontaneous kind of person. He likes a plan as much as the next guy but he’s always preferred to rush in, guns blazing, and face whatever the threat is with wit and skinny limbs. His penchant for improvisation doesn’t exactly hurt. But facing up to supernatural threats? That’s a whole different ballgame. 

Old Stiles only had to deal with Jackson or Harris. Current Stiles has to face wolves that can – and will – bite his face off as well as hunters who won’t hesitate to shoot first and ask questions later. It certainly doesn’t help his nerves when, judging by Derek’s awkward shrugs and averted gaze when Stiles asked him about other threats, there are clearly more things out there. Knowing Stiles' luck, most of these ‘things’ will probably won’t hesitate to have a nibble on his bones.

(Spontaneous combustion, accidental decapitation and accidental castration, to name but a few.)

He went and sat his ass down and read those stupid books from cover to cover. Making notes with focus comparable to Harris when he sits down to discredit Stiles' homework.

He’s a container. A skinny human shaped container of magic.

It’s easier, he thinks, raising his hand to stare at the dark constellations of moles that mar his skin, to think of magic like water. And himself as a jug. On its own the magic is rainwater, pretty to look at but ultimately filled with all sorts of nasties and not at all safe for humans. But every time Stiles uses it, every time he trains his magic, he’s adding a purifying pill. Making certain amounts of water safe to use as he wishes. Eventually he’ll have the entire jug at his beck and call. All clear and safe and purified. It will just take time.

Which is where – he narrows his eyes down at the open page in front of him – the books come in.

Learning to etch runes will help stimulate his magic – his spark – whilst also aiding him in his quest to arm himself. He’s just so sick and tired of being helpless, of being thrown aside and treated like the comic relief who only occasionally has a smart idea or two. Even if he’s not showing it off to the others, he at least wants to prove to himself that he can be more. Personal targets and all that.

The inky darkness coiled around his shoulders tightens, soft fur brushing against his cheek and making him flinch back. Slanted features warp and flex, solid one moment, liquid shadow the next. There’s a laugh, low and echoing, before his uninvited companion falls back into its customary silence. Comfortable to watch him struggle.

Stiles rolls his eyes and resists the urge to tap it on the head. After all, if the fox doesn't wish it, his hand won't hit anything tangible. God forbid that the asshole be helpful.

He shakes his head before stretching his hand over to the paper and pencils that he’s brought. Already marred with his many practice sketches – his hand hurts from the amount of straight lines he’s attempted to draw in the past three hours. His pencil is worn and blunt and, he shakes his pen and grimaces, yep. His pen is empty. Completely bone dry. Dryer than the Sahara.

The pencil will have to do.

Finally - finally! - he finds himself ready to begin. Pencil to paper as he leans over his work. Biting his lip and narrowing his eyes. He's chosen a minor water rune to start off with. Something simple - so he doesn't risk blowing up the world if things go wrong. Not that he has the god levels of power something like that would need but - you know - maybe the caution that his dad has always tried to beat into his brain is finally surfacing.

On second thought - Stiles pauses in his drawing, blinking up at his surroundings and huffing out a short laugh. He's crouched inside of a house full of victims, thinking about werewolves and painting out a magic spell.

Nah. He's the polar opposite of cautious.

Still, starting out simple is definitely the right thing to do, he doubts Peter or Derek will be keen to learn of a second Hale house fire.

He lifts his pencil, finished with the sharp lines and smooth edges of the rune. He chucks it off to the side, dismissive in his excitement as he crowds even close to the paper. Trying to recall all of the details written in his books. Brain fuzzy and grin wide. Stiles' aching hand is forgotten in the face of his single-minded determination. Focusing all of his attention on his belief that this will work.

That’s an important facet of being a human spark, according to the book.

Ensuring that you have a strong belief in yourself, your conviction and your abilities.

Stiles kind of has none of those, perks of being who he is, but he’s hoping he can bullshit his way through this. Maybe the ‘magic works in mysterious ways’ spiel that Deaton’s always waxing on about may have a smidgen of truth hidden away in it.

All Stiles has to do is channel all of his desperate belief into this and maybe – maybe – he’ll end up with something more than a headache.

(“Belief is strong like that.”)

Stiles winces, dropping the pencil for a minute to press his fingers to his temple.

(“Belief is strong like –”)

A sharp pain shoots through his mind for a second before fading away into nothingness. Leaving him with a lingering sense of doubt and copper – blood? – on his tongue. Thinking he’s bitten his lip or cheek; he tests around his mouth. Poking a finger against his cheek to check for pain. Only a little but perturbed when he finds no cuts or sores.

(“Belief is –”)

He must... he must’ve imagined the whole thing.

(“Belief –”)

Stiles shakes his head, rubbing at his brow, and quickly forgets the train of thought. The darkness lingering at his throat opens one eye, mildly curious, before closing it once more.

He stares down at the rune. Etched out to a perfectionist's standards, all crisp lines and careful curvature. Stiles slowly drops a palm to rest against the surface of his power. Once again focusing all the might of his belief into the thin sheet. Sweat building on his forehead when he feels his power shift.

Something inside of him stretches, languid, and _slowly_ untwists itself. Lightning running through his veins and arteries, lighting him up from the inside and setting his eyes aglow. He feels like a snow globe, delicate glass – so easy to break – curled around a small world that’s been waiting, patient, for the day that someone is brave enough to lift it into the air and shake. Kick starting evolution as snow begins to fall on a tiny civilisation.

Beads of water rise between his fingers, droplets small and cold. Trickling through the rotten floorboards into the basement below.

(Water on healed burns; salvation six years too late.)

Absolutely stunned, Stiles slowly lifts his hand. Making a conscious effort to cut away at the chord connecting his spark and the rune as he goes and watching as the flow of water slows. Source removed.

He clenches his fists, still staring down in disbelief, and can’t help but bark out a hysterical laugh. So very proud of something so – for all intents and purposes – seems so very insignificant. He hasn’t lit a house on fire or taken down a coven of vampires, or anything really impressive, but he’s done something.

For Stiles, that little something is more than enough. For now, at least.

(Stiles picks up the snow globe, letting the white flakes drift across the scene, before he lets it go. Watching dispassionately as it falls to smash against the ground. Glass scattering across concrete as the snow dissipates into the air.)

* * *

**.25.**

It's Peter who tells him of the ominous warning left at Derek's door. Peter who tells him of the betas who never returned. Peter who lets him pick at his knowledge and tells him tales of before.

(Before the wolf lost his birth right, stability and family in one fell swoop. Before the wolf was abandoned by its only pack. Before the end.)

Stiles eyes the eldest Hale. Comfortably sprawled across his bed and leaning back against a dozing Hunter as he delves into an obscure grimoire Stiles found tucked away in a charity shop.

It's pure instinct that has him rising from his desk chair, abandoning his shoes as he goes, and moving to curl up in the small triangle of space left between the wall and his two closest confidants.

Neither stir, although, after a minute, Peter does reach to rest a warm hand on Stiles' ankle.

An anchoring weight.

Perhaps, this might work.

* * *

**.33.**

Deaton takes one look at him, as he passes through the threshold of his practice, before shaking his head.

"I refuse." He says, without prompt.

Stiles falters, feet shifting as he notes the ring of mountain ash that surrounds the druid's office, and cocks his head to side.

"I haven't even asked yet."

"Your intent is clear," the druid says, bowing his head slightly as he avoids Stiles' sharp gaze. "And whilst I acknowledge your potential, Stiles, to teach you would violate every vow I have ever sworn. I am a being of balance. And you, are not. Thus, I must refuse."

Stiles blinks, once, twice, before swallowing back the contempt that rises, sugary sweet, to coat his tongue. "That's more than I ever expected you to say."

"You deserved this much at least." The druid offers a small smile, "I am not a monster."

'Not like you' the druid doesn't say, lips forming a pale line, 'I'm still redeemable. I still have a chance.'

Stiles leaves (footsteps seeped in confusion as he pauses, back to the door, and stares down at his hands. Wondering what he’s done wrong this time.)

Hidden behind a closed door, Alan Deaton slumps down, shoulders rising as he clasps his hands together. Sweat dripping down his forehead as he wonders if he has made a mistake.

* * *

**.35.**

"Deucalion." The fey whisper, laughter chasing the whistling of their voices. “The demon wolf nears, he growls, and he prowls." Their dark eyes glimmer. Small iridescent wings as fast as a hummingbird's as they flutter about.

One dances closer, silver-spun dress rippling as it gently cups Stiles' chin between its' hands. Nails tiny but deadly sharp against his flesh. "What will the little spark do?"

"Survive." He tells them, calm and collected in a way that he rarely allows himself to be. Fingers longing to tap against his thigh, scratch at his neck or pull at his hair. He ignores the instincts, drowns them in frosted conviction as he meets the fey's gaze with eyes. He can't be anything else but collected. Not when he has the attention of the fey. They're accusing, expectant. And Stiles has no clue what they want from him. 

"We'll watch," they sing, "and we will form our judgements, son of man."

Stiles slowly inclines his head, biting his lip as the movement jostles the fey's grip. Rivulets of blood dripping down into the hollow of his throat as the small talons sink into his cheeks.

Fear settles deep in his stomach, excitement at its' heels.

* * *

**.15.**

He thinks, maybe, that he’s forgotten the reason he fell in love – in lust? God that sound pretentious. He's a teenager, not Shakespeare – with Lydia Martin. Thinks that, somewhere between the high heels and the boys and fitting in with social niceties, maybe Lydia Martin has forgotten how to be Lydia Martin.

Remembers a red-haired girl who passed all of her tests, top of her class with a smirk drawn across her lips. Crushing bullies beneath the heel of her shoes and not giving any one the time of day unless they could prove that they were worth her attention. Remembers debates between them that would last the entire class and leave the teacher’s head flicking back and forth as he tried to keep up.

Remembers that he was lonely. Remembers that he wanted a friend.

Remembers the scared little girl who watched her parents drift apart and decided that that wasn’t allowed. That she would be the glue holding them together, even if she had to blend in with everyone else and be normal. Donning a shallow persona and turning her back on everything that made her Lydia Martin.

When, Stiles wonders, did the façade become a reality?

He watches as Lydia and Jackson embrace, the wolves around them reigning in their flashing eyes and fangs; thinks, maybe, it's time to abandon some of his ambitions. Time to face facts and move on.

He knows, all too well, when it’s time to give up

* * *

**.31.**

The twins loom above him, claws out and eyes red as they glare down at him.

Once, Stiles would have feared them. Feared the potential threat to his friends. His brother.

_He still does. But he –_

Now, he ducks his head, brushes past them, and continues on with his day. A shadow curling at his jaw, teeth poised at his throat, with a laugh lingering in his ears.

_– pushes past it. Ignores the urge to cower. Thinks of the spark humming in his chest and clenches his teeth._

The twins don’t seem to know what to make of him.

He refuses to acknowledge his shaking legs and sweating palms.

(He is more than this. He’s allowed to be more than this.)

* * *

**.34.**

"You should be careful."

The only advice offered by Derek to both Scott and Stiles, continues to whirl around the latter's head. Even days after, when school has started and a façade of normality has settled upon them all.

The alpha made no mention of Deucalion, even though Stiles knows that Scott has been told of the demon wolf's approach.

It seems that battle lines have been drawn, and the human has been left out once again.

Stiles thinks he should be more surprised than he is.

* * *

**.32.**

'We have been forced together,' acknowledges the shadow – the Nogitsune – curled across the reflection of the cabinet as Stiles stares into his mirror. Tails cascade like ebony waterfalls down the solid bathroom fixtures as it taps its claws against wood in a staccato rhythm only Stiles can hear. 'Now offer me a reason to work with you, human. I desire to see your worth.'

"So you finally bother to speak." Stiles grimaces to his reflection. "What made you break your vow of silence?"

The nogitsune doesn't reply, staring back at him with an expressionless face.

"Right" Stiles straightens, gritting his teeth together as he raises his chin slightly, "Of course you're not about to make this easy. I'm not about to offer you anything, dude. You're the one who got yourself trapped in a tree."

'Arrogant words.' says the nogitsune, baring needle sharp fangs, seemingly amused. 'For one who has no knowledge of the events that occurred seventy years ago.'

"It isn't arrogance," Stiles argues, "I'm just fed up of other people, wolves, gods, or whatever deciding how I'm going to live my life. If you think I won’t understand? Try me."

In the reflection, the fox cocks its head to the side before jumping from the cabinet to the counter in a smooth, fluid motion.

'Try you?' It wonders. Pressing its nose to the glass and raising a paw to scape its claws down the length of the mirror, Stiles can imagine a groove being dug into the surface. Broken glass, sharp fragments and ink splattered tails. 'Perhaps I will.'

It drops its' paw and the mirror remains untouched. Perfectly clear. Stiles’ reflection blinks back at him as he tries to pretend that everything is okay.


	3. To stay true to your words

* * *

**.36.**

"I hear there's been a foreign force lurking around the forest recently."

"Foreign… force?" Stiles lays back on his bed, feet braced on the wall as he peers over at Peter. Taking in the werewolf from a flipped perspective. "What's with that analogy, dude? You sound like you're quoting star wars. Force there was, in the woods. In those dark woods, foreign force."

Upside-down Peter's nose wrinkles - if he's flipped, does that make him a pancake? Pancake Peter? - as he tosses his right leg carelessly over his left. Leaning his elbows on the arms of Stiles' desk chair and crossing his hands over his lap like some sort of movie villain. Stiles really should get him a toy cat or something, just to complete the look.

"I do wish you wouldn’t call me dude."

"Well you've made it obvious that it annoys you when I do it." Stiles says with a grin, "So now I'm contractually obligated to continue. You'll have to take it up with my lawyer."

"I assume your lawyer is on paid vacation."

"Of course, it's almost like that guy never works."

"Funny." Peter drawls, even as his cheek twitches in a way that tells Stiles that yes - the wolf really is trying not to smile. He should really just quit this student/supernatural-fighter and just become a comedian. Or maybe a magician. Peter can be his manager and Hunter will be his assistant. "Can we return to the subject now?"

"Huh, oh. Yeah sure thing… dude."

"Stiles."

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles waves a hand towards the ceiling, carding the other through Hunter's fur when the hound burrows his snout further into his armpit. The nogitsune is lingering somewhere nearby, ever a pleasant ball of misery and despair, but Stiles can't be bothered to crane his head up and look for it. "I'm listening. Swear."

"There's a new player in the game." Peter begins again, all seriousness. Unwilling, Stiles finds himself sobering up too. "I've got contacts, Stiles, and they're all whispering about something new in the forest. Something powerful. I'm not sure - but, well. All rumors are rooted in truth and all that."

Stiles fingers spasm against Hunter's ear. Earning him a deep grumble that he ignores. Frozen as he stares up at the ceiling.

"They're saying he's been hanging nearby for a while." Peter continues. "Apparently he was even there when my family was alive, lurking in the background. I was just wondering… Does that sound familiar to you?"

Stiles blinks and in the next moment, Peter is looming above him. Eyebrows raised as he peers down and casts a shadow across Stile's face.

"Maybe?" He manages after a beat. Immediately aware that he isn't fooling the eldest Hale in the slightest. "Jog my memory, give me the details."

"A man in a black cloak." Peter says slowly. Pointedly. "White shirt, brown trousers and boots. A sash and waistcoat." He reaches down to poke Stiles between the eyes. The teenager goes cross-eyed trying to follow the finger. "Wearing a deer skull as a mask."

"…yeah. I might have an idea about who you're on about."

"Please, do go on." Peter leaves Stiles be, retaking his seat and comfortable pose and leaving Stiles to scramble into a cross-legged position. Disrupting his Hunter and letting the hound rest his head on his leg in apology. The nogitsune is stretched out across the windowsill, he realises, watching Peter with unfathomably dark eyes. Just what Stiles needs, for a creature of pure chaos and Peter fucking Hale to get on. Even without talking to each other.

"He's a… well. There's no good way to put it. He's a god."

"I see, I had an inkling."

Really? Stiles cocks his head to the side, eyeing the wolf up critically. "Was god really your first conclusion?"

"No, it was at least my third."

"Well look here, now who's being funny."

"I have my moments, but focus, Stiles." Peter taps a nail to his knee. "How did a human like you, get acquainted with a god."

"I feel like I should be insulted by that character assessment. What do you mean 'like you' huh?" Stiles wonders around a curled lip. Picking at the cuffs of his hoodie as he tries to pull his eyes away from Peter's tap-tapping. "It was an accident, I guess. Wrong time wrong place. I wandered into his territory and he took a shine to me."

"A shine?"

"I'm a ray of fucking sunshine, Peter. Of course he took a shine, I'm irresistible."

Stiles is happy to take Peter's raised eyebrows as a clear sign of agreement. Who's around to care if it isn't?

"I think he's just nosy, anyway." He continues. "Likes watching people and shit. Manipulating things behind the scenes. Fairly harmless." The last lie tastes bitter as he flashes a grin Peter's way. "Just like a certain someone we know."

"Is it my turn to be insulted?"

"Hey I just insinuated it was someone we bother know. You're the one who heard 'manipulative' and figured 'oh hey, he must be thinking about me'! No one to blame but yourself, creeperwolf."

Peter offers a thin smile, leaning back and letting his leg slip down until he has both crossed at the ankles. "Do you know who he is, Stiles. Beyond his species. His name?"

"His." Stiles stares down at Hunter's ear, running over each crimson hair as he tries to gather his thoughts. "Names have power, Peter. What makes you think he's given his to me."

"Oh I don't know... let's call it a suspicion."

"Fuck you and your suspicions, dude." Stiles says without heat. "He did say once, that humans gave him a name. A long time ago."

"And that would be?"

("Do you even have a name?" Stiles wonders. Unconsciously pressing his hand to his throat in case the god decides to steal his voice again. The guy certainly seems fickle enough to do it on a whim. "Or should I just think of you as the creepy wood guy with a fetish for," he waves in the mask’s direction, "dead things."

The figure crouched on top of the Nemeton cocks his head to the side. Brushing his furs to the side before collapsing into a casual heap on the wood. One leg tucked beneath him, the other hanging over the Nemeton’s side. "Call me what you will." He says. "I've never held a fondness for titles so I don't suppose your insults will harm me."

"Is that really all you’re going to say?" Stiles pushes, daring to move closer and peer across at the god. "Mister I've got thick skin, so I don't give a shit what you call me?"

"Is there a problem."

"Duh." Stiles drops his hand and crosses his arms. "It’s weird enough talking to you, dude. It would be nice if you gave me the slightest bit of leeway. Think of it as an apology for the piece of crap fox you shoved into my stomach."

"Heart." Deer mask corrects as he leans back on his hands. Because apparently semantics are the important thing here. "I wrapped the fox around your heart, Mieczyslaw-"

"And that!"

"Am I supposed to know what the 'that's you are referring to is?"

"My name." Stiles says, foot tapping against hard soil. "No one but _you_ uses my name. Not even my dad. I don't exactly go out of my way to tell people."

"You don't?" Wonders the god, with laughter chasing every word.

"No, I really don't." Stiles leans forward, jaw twitching when all the god does is continue to stare at him. Smile visible from beneath his mask. "So, there it is. There's a reason for you. You use my name, so I should be given yours."

"You are attempting to bargain with a god."

"No." Stiles corrects, filled with stupid human overconfidence. "I'm attempting to bargain with a dick."

A beat of silence before the god tosses his head back and laughs. Exposing the pale column of his neck with dark stubble - it was a white beard last time Stiles saw him, long and stained with grey - clinging to his jaw. Reaching down in search of the bear tattoo that stains his skin.

"Fine then, Mieczyslaw. You have won this small game." The god says, once he's sobered up some. "Long ago, close to my creation, I think the humans granted me a title."

"You _think_ they gave you a name?"

"Time has passed, Mieczyslaw. I have changed in ways that I would have never believed possible back then."

"Uh huh. So? The name."

"My title," says the man in the deer skull mask as he leans closer, "is-)

"Veles."

* * *

**.38.**

Stiles knows, as soon as the first body shows up, that this is a problem he’s going to have to deal with.

Scott telling him it’s 'probably just a serial killer' and 'not their problem' is probably his biggest clue. This is beacon hills, known for its nature walks and small bakeries. Not its crime scenes. Before everything supernatural went down, his dads main focus was fraud and drink driving with a side of domestic disputes. That’s not to say there were no serious crimes occurring, because there definitely has been, just not a lot.

For god’s sake their last recorded serial killer – discounting both Kate and Peter, special cases in Stiles' opinion – operated in the early 80s. Stiles would know, he wrote a project on the dude when he was twelve. Pointing out every mistake he made leading up to his capture.

He should’ve got an A on that thing – not a worried call to his father because technically he wasn’t allowed access to a couple (most) of those files. Who knew that kids weren't supposed to do in depth research on serial killers - certainly not poor little Stiles. He's not supposed to have a police radio in a shoebox under his bed or a knife in his sockdraw. But nobody's said anything about them so far.

So yes, he knew as soon as the body count started to rise that it was up to him to put an end to whatever it is causing all the chaos. Who else was going to put their foot down, Derek?

Which leads him to where he is now, staring out over the vast expanse of the preserve from where Hunter and he perch upon a rocky outcrop. There are lots of rocky outcrops in the preserve. Perfect for both edgy werewolves and adhd teenagers out walking their dogs.

"It’s a wendigo" he announces after a moment. Proud of figuring it out after hours of trawling through his growing collection of old books and some internet articles – most of them filled with meaningless crap. There was a Supernatural episode somewhere on that mess and Stiles does not appreciate the parallels. He's more of a Buffy guy anyway. "Running around on a murder spree, from what I can gather. Dude’s got a taste for the defenseless, fond of snatching drunks as they leave the club."

He grimaces, knowing that just months ago – before all of this – the one stumbling out of the bar may well have been him. "Pretty damn rude, don't you think? They were just having a good night out, but he had to get all butt-hurt and drag them away. Being a dick ain't human exclusive."

The boy casts his gaze down to the hound, flashing blunt human teeth.

"Go wild, Dude."

The Cŵn Annwn seems to leer back at him for a moment, a strange expression on a dog, and his satisfaction is made obvious by his twitching crimson ears as he crouches. Claws gouging deep grooves in the rock.

His bark echoes through the forest, silence following in its wake as creatures big and small hold their breath. Bears and squirrels and rabbits and cougars. All buckling down and clinging to the vacant hope that the wild hunt will not come for them.

If this is the power of a single member of the hunt, the full force of them all must be breath-taking.

Hunter leaps forth and Stiles settles back on his haunches, not quite happy but not particularly torn apart.

(Apathetic, he thinks, he’s apathetic.

(Maybe because he's not the one holding the knife.))

* * *

**.39.**

"They've done nothing to help me. No wait, that’s wrong. They went out of their way to hurt me, Peter. Multiple times. Why should I stick my neck on the line for them?" Stiles ensures that his tone is stable, stoic even, as he considers the blueprints of the bank spread out before him. "And don't say to do it out of the goodness of my head, dude. We both know that neither of us are a fan of that approach."

His wolf huffs out a chuckle as he approaches. Stopping at Stiles' back and pressing a palm to his shoulder as he too leans over the blueprints. His voice is low when he deigns to speak. The steady purr of an expensive car that rumbles through Stiles' bones.

"They mean little to me either, Stiles, don't mistake pity for fondness. But you don’t want to stay here, in Beacon Hills." Claws lightly scrap across Stiles' shoulder before Peter reigns himself in. Showing of that iron clad control that he's so proud to wave in front of his nephew's face. "And neither do I. And we both have something that will remain here that we wish to be protected. Establishing a powerful pack here, that is indebted to us, will ensure that our... let's call them investments, we'll be polite, are kept in good condition."

Stiles wavers, thoughts immediately flying to his father. His eyes, once again, hover over the highlighted word on the blueprints. Even a month ago, he wouldn't have known what the word meant. What it suggested about werewolves. That he does now? He only has Veles to thank and Stiles isn't about to do that anytime soon. God forbid that asshole get a bigger head than the one he's already dealing with.

"Fine." He says, without anger. A familiar exhaustion digging poison spikes into his heels as he reaches down to sweep up the sheets. Arms overflowing with precious resources as he leads the way out of the loft. There's a roll of runes on his backpacker and a small jar of Ash in his front. More than enough for a task like this, especially with Peter at his side. "Fine. Right. Let's get on with this."

(It's a test, for Peter (but maybe it's also a test for Stiles.))

* * *

**.43.**

Head spinning from an influx of new information and fingers clenched around an old metal bat, Stiles stumbles his way back into the Hale house.

He didn’t plan on coming here, not exactly, but he isn’t ashamed to make use of the what remains of the Hale legacy. As sad as it is to acknowledge – they’re dead. There is no miracle solution hanging round, ready and available, to bring them back. Ignoring Peter's new identity as werewolf Jesus. There’s no one around to tell Stiles to stay off the property. Not even Derek – off training his makeshift pack.

So here he is, plaid sleeves rolled to his elbows, safety goggles (‘borrowed’ from the science labs) over his eyes and pencil hastily shoved behind his ear. Kneeling on the floor over the rough schematics of a magic bat. Which isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds, no matter how many raised eyebrows he receives from Peter.

Bats are cool. Just ask any villain's minion ever. Not that Stiles is trying to be a villain here. Probably.

Honestly, Stiles is tired of playing second fiddle to his clawed companions. Fed up on relying on Deaton’s bullshit as he struggles to pick which rune to use. He can use magic now – he’s not even that awful at it – but it still takes time. Still takes deliberation. For now, at least.

He wants a weapon that will let him eliminate that weakness.

So here he is.

Breathing out shakily, he pushes his goggles back down over his eyes and reaches for his bat.

* * *

**.47.**

Stiles would like to think that he knows better than to approach a meeting with a stranger after receiving a mysterious text message from an unknown number. He would really like to – because that just sounds like stupid behaviour. Behaviour his father would have his hide for.

Unfortunately, Stiles has never claimed to be sensible.

Which is why he finds himself swinging the Jeep into his normal space at Mary’s diner. Kicking the door shut behind him and nodding at the homeless guy on the street corner who knows all the good information. Again, not something his dad would approve of him knowing. So, he’s never going to find out.

Hunter is somewhere nearby, lurking in the pocket of woods behind the diner with his ears pricked for the slightest sign of Stiles’ distress, and the small rune in his pocket runs warm. A low power offensive fire configuration meant to serve as more of a distraction than anything else. Stiles may not be sensible, but he is clever. He has no plans to go into this without insurance.

He’s also set up a text alert for Peter. Primed to send an emergency message if he doesn’t turn it off within the next three hours. He has two burner phones at home with a similar task – just a couple of hours more allowance.

The door swings shut behind him, bell announcing his arrival cheerily, and Stiles smiles. Waving to Mary’s daughter – his old babysitter, manning the counter with a grimace, ah the wonders of customer service – before heading further into the diner. Knowing whoever went out of their way to contact him will probably be seated in a more private area.

And sure enough – “Well this is interesting; didn’t know I was a big enough fish to catch the attention of the great demon wolf.” – there he is.

Deucalion’s lips curl, sunglasses glinting as the sun filters through the diner’s thin blinds. Long claws braced against the tabletop for all to see.

“You smell of fear, of nerves.” He says, like it’s not creepy as hell to say things like that. “And yet you address me like an old acquaintance. Do you not pay heed to your senses?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Stiles slides into the opposite seat, settling back against the cheap vinyl. “Do you always talk like you’ve fallen out of a Dicken’s novel? Doesn’t that get exhausting?”

Deucalion brow furrows and Stiles leans forward, knowing that the wolf will be able to sense his smile. “I can do rhetorical questions too.” He says. “It’s a skill of mine.”

“Ah, yes. Irritating your opponent. I can see the worth of such a technique.” Deucalion sweeps a hand forward, indicating to the approaching waitress that Stiles missed. “Feel free to order, mister Stilinski. I will cover the costs.” He says, mimicking Stiles’ smile and tilting his head. His smile is a bit more intimidating. Okay, Stiles’ eyebrow ticks, a lot more. “A good atmosphere cultivates a good working relationship. Or so I have heard.”

“It’s sound advice, dude.” Stiles beckons the waitress – Emily, one of his dad’s deputies is her aunt – and orders a coffee. Knowing he’ll need the caffeine for this conversation. “Spend all the money you want; I’ve heard that you know all about good negotiation.”

Deucalion’s smile flickers at the corners, barely visible, but still as terrifying as before.

“From Hale, I presume?”

“Derek?” The question is, does Deucalion know of Stiles’ association with Peter. “No, he doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Then where?”

“Sources that prefer to remain anonymous.” Stiles smiles as Emily returns, accepting the mug and free biscuit. A perk of being a regular. Emily taps her nose and winks before wandering off as Stiles picks up the biscuit. “Did I say that fancily enough for you? Is my answer acceptable?”

“I suppose it’s only fair that you retain a degree of anonymity. After all, I learnt of your presence through an outside source.”

“Oh?” Stiles reaches for his mug, setting the half-eaten biscuit down on the saucer. “Wasn’t aware I was anyone of importance.”

“The thing you said, when you walked in.” Deucalion leans forward, “’I didn’t know I was big enough of a fish’… Doesn’t that imply that you consider yourself to be a fish to begin with? A player in this game of ours?”

Stiles says nothing, even as the shadow at his neck snickers. Burying its’ nose into his neck. His coffee is half gone, probably won’t last much longer. He thinks he wants more.

Deucalion leans back again, huffing out a breath. “I suppose it is of no consequence, not really. But there is something I would like to ask of you, Stilinski.”

Stiles clicks his finger nodding to himself. “So that’s what this whole set up is about. You want something. Question is… what?”

"It’s rather simple. I would just prefer that you keep yourself clear of the conflict, Mister Stilinski." Deucalion says. Clasping his hands together over the steaming cup of tea that he still hasn’t bothered to pick up. Stiles sets his own mug down, empty. Now desperate for something to do with his hands. He has nothing to do but stare at the table and tap his shoes to the floor.

The nogitsune, wound around Stiles' neck, hisses cruel laughter in his ear. 'A demon he may not be,' it says, 'but clever he is most certainly is,'

"I can’t promise anything." Stiles replies after a moment, ignoring his attachment's whispers and turning his head slightly to peer out the window. Watching as cars and people come and go. "Not when my dad might get involved. Plus, Scott... well.” He frowns, not about to divulge that complicated relationship to a stranger. Especially not this one. “I'm not exactly happy with the threats that you guys have been sending his way, dude."

"Scott McCall?” A pause. “Ultimately, we have no intention of harming the boy. I assure you of that. It will be his choices which decide his fate." Deucalion finally reaches forward to grip at his cup, no hesitation present as he takes a delicate sip. Unseeing eyes fixed on Stiles' face behind the shadow of his tinted glasses. There’s something about him that reminds Stiles of the Hales, Peter especially. All dangerous lines and knowing smiles. "We will endeavor to keep the violence away from your father's eyes, of course."

Stiles hums, sinking back into his chair. Waving away Emily when she approaches, looking at his empty mug in askance. She smiles, glancing between him and Deucalion with mild curiosity before she wanders off. Smart woman. Smarter than him at least.

"We'll see then." He says. "So long as you give me information. Quid pro quo and all that."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, dude.” Stiles offers a hollow grin, dread pooling in his stomach as he prepares to make a deal with a devil. "Information on a certain mutual interest of ours."

* * *

**.37.**

When it learns of Deucalion and the crusade the alpha pack seem intent to incur, the Nogitsune laughs.

‘Demon?’ It cackles, shadow-dripping tails writhing in the wake of its' leap. Claws digging into the fabric of Stiles' sweater as it rests its' snout on his shoulder. They don't leave a mark, even as Stiles' imagines needles ripping through wool. ‘The wolf knows not what that title entails.’

It flashes its' fangs toward their reflection, reminding Stiles – how could he ever forget – that this is a creature that has manipulated nations and destroyed empires. All to soothe its' terrible and insatiable appetite. A creature which lounges on despair as it calls for the miserable to bring forth the crown.

"And you do?" He asks, after a long moment. Raising his hand over its' head. Close enough to touch but fat enough to preserve the careful distance they've managed to preserve up to this point. He wonders if its' fur is soft or warm. Wet like the ink that drips from its' paws; silky, like the shadows it bathes in. Still, no matter how curious he is, Stiles refuses to be the one to break their delicate equilibrium.

(In the end, the Nogitsune's pointed silence is answer enough.)

* * *

**.42.**

It’s the first time Stiles has visited Peter’s flat, and he’s barely keeping a hold on his curiosity. Locking it away in a small, dusty corner of his mind as he practically vibrates in place from the effort of staying in control. He’s nosy, goddammit, that’s not illegal.

He’d been surprised when he tracked down the wolf’s flat a few weeks before. Less of the stylish bachelor’s penthouse he was expecting and instead small and inconspicuous, tucked away in a large block of flats towards the industrial park south of Beacon Hills. It’s a wonder Peter can sleep with the background mechanical noises. Stiles knows exactly how impressive a wolf’s hearing is. 

He sighs, pulling the strap of his bag higher up his shoulder and stepping further into the flat. Taking in the warm red hues of the walls and the soft leather of the sofa and chair.

It’s homely, he thinks. Offering Peter a small, cheeky smile when the man emerges from the kitchen. Wiping his hands on a tea towel.

“I would’ve opened the door, you know.” The wolf says, lips twisting upwards. “Normal people knock, Stiles.”

“I did, you took too long.” Stiles shrugs, dropping his bag onto one of the sofa’s and collapsing next to it. Leaning back into the magnificent comfort and closing his eyes. The nogitsune shrieks at the sudden displacement, falling down next to him and hissing through bared fangs. “If you don’t want me getting in, hide your key in better places.”

“It was behind a number plaque, behind a brick, inside another brick.”

“Like I said, better places, dude.”

Peter snorts and Stiles hears him throw the towel to the side and then footsteps as he walks nearer. Presumably he sits on the chair – Stiles is too snug to bother opening his eyes. Nice to see that Peter isn't opposed to spending out for a bit more comfort.

“So why did you invite me into your secret lair.” He says, in lieu of continuing that line of thought. Thoughts of peter and the coma generally descend into dark halls of pity - mixed with stagnant fear on his own behalf - that neither of them want to acknowledge. Much less remember. "Normally you find it fun to scare me shitless at home. Why change it up now? Finally realise how weird it is for a thirty-something year old to be visiting a teenager’s bedroom?”

“I’m sure that I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Peter retorts, “I did, however, manage to get my hands -”

“Paws.”

“Hands – on some older tomes out of the family vault. I figured I may as well share some with you since you seem determined to exude the stench of magic.”

“I’m going to choose to ignore that insult to my amazing hygiene.” Stiles announces, cracking an eye open, “and demand that you, good Sir Wolfington, bring me your finest books right now.”

“You’ll have to endure my company if you wish to read them, I refuse to let such delicate books out of my sight, Stiles.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Stiles makes grabbing motions with his hands. “Books. Gimme.”

Peter laughs but does as he’s told.

* * *

**.46.**

Stiles watches, silent, as the magic curls around her form. The sickly green faint to his eyes as it coils itself tight against her skin. A poisonous maelstrom that remains invisible to the common eye. He’s glad he’s been practicing or he wouldn’t even be able to see this much.

He'll have to keep a close eye on his new English teacher though. Nothing good comes from wandering around with an aura like that.

She’ll either be attacked or – Stiles grimaces – be the one attacking.

Is she just another monster of the week? A witch? Maybe she’s druid like Deaton, lord knows that man carries an awful stench to his magic sometimes. Like the cheese that his dad sometimes buys. Stowing it away in the fridge and then forgetting it's there. Leaving Stiles to snap a peg over his nose and pull on the rubber gloves for some emergency cheese extraction.

At his throat, the Nogitsune nonchalantly beats away a stray ribbon of noxious energy as it prods at their combined magic. Tails dripping midnight ink down Stiles' back like some weird sort of cloak.

Stiles refuses to acknowledge the gratitude that rises in his stomach, ignoring the smug narrow eyed grin sent his way by his irritating passenger.

He's not supposed to be fond of this thing - he certainly isn't supposed to like it.

* * *

**.44.**

He takes a step back to admire his work.

No longer just a plain metal bat, his new and shiny weapon practically hums with energy. Enough that the fox at his neck has perked up. Ears pricked as it leans forward and licks at its' chops. Obviously enticed by the magic that lazily swirls around the bat. It's whispering away to itself, soft words that Stiles tunes up. Too giddy with elation from a job well done to really care about what the old fox is mumbling about. Probably nothing good anyway.

Gently, Stiles settles his hand on the soft leather grip and lifts his baby into the air. Letting the sunlight reflect off of the buffed metal as he admires the precise runes that wind their way across its surface.

Anything less than perfect and his hand would probably be minced meat right now as the bat self destructs. Bat fireworks, he wonders what colour they would be.

“I’d like to see something take me by surprise now.” He finally whispers, smiling when his fox raises a shoulder in a rough approximation of shared comradery, “we’re gonna be amazing, dude.”

("You should stay back, Stiles, we don't… we don't need you.")

Taking a deep breath, he activates his masterpiece. Letting the magic sink into the metal's surface like an old friend as his grip tightens.

This, Stiles decides, nodding away to himself as he swings the sparking weapon through the air, will be glorious.

(It has to be.)

* * *

**.51.**

(It has to be)

The hag hisses, stained teeth glinting in the moonlight as she reaches into her bag. Gripping at a bundle of dubious looking herbs as she snarls threats in his direction. He thinks they're threats, hag-speak isn't on his list to learn. Although he might be able to shock a sailor with the way she's howling. There must be something creative in there. Stiles has always been a sucker for learning foreign swears. Maybe he should…

Not now - he shouldn't let himself me distracted.

Not. Now.

She's still staring him down.

There’s a necklace of small human bones at her neck, rat corpses tied to the notches of her belt and dead hornets twisted into the knots of her hair. The finger she raises to point accusingly in his direction is gnarled and misshapen, veins tinted sickly yellow. The exact shade of her jagged teeth.

Stiles stands, magic dancing at his fingertips and grip tight on his bat.

The bones around her neck - they're so very small. He grits his teeth. Hefting his bat up until he's holding it out, ready. He shouldn’t but he can't help it. Can't help but let his eyes linger on those too-small bones. Watching as she scratches at a boil at her neck and hisses at Hunter when the hound nears. She'd set a boundary early. A lingering miasma at her heels preventing the Hunter from drawing any closer. Much to the dog's displeasure.

Which leaves… Stiles.

The bat wavers, his hesitation clear, before he takes a step forward. Planting his feet into mud and imagining thick, green roots sprouting from the ground. Coiling around his shoes as an anchoring weight. Wrapping around his limbs and snapping him back into the present.

'What will you do?' wonders the dark shadow at his throat.

And he -

(Thinks of the people – the children – that have died for this woman to live. Thinks of the ones left behind to mourn. Thinks of the rot in her breath and the ruin on her soul.

(Thinks, who will miss you?))

\- swings.

The hag screams as his bat catches on her outstretched arm. Runes activating in a spark of ozone.

Lightning traces a path across her pallid skin, coiling around her limbs and pressing close. Highlighting her arteries in sick, lurid detail that he'll be seeing every time he closes his eyes for weeks.

She lunges back and then twists. Ready to run.

The sparks multiply as Stiles growls and twists to hit her a second time. The metal of his weapon thrumming beneath his fingers as it connects with the fleeing woman’s back. Forcing him to adjust his grip lest he lose control of the bat.

The lightning’s dance somehow becomes even more agitated and, soon enough, Stiles is faced by a veritable tornado of crackling light. Can do little more than plant his weapon into the ground and raise a hand to shield his eyes. Managing to make out a faint blur within the maelstrom of energy.

It's a vicious, merciless sort of chaos.

He flinches back, wishing for the reassurance of Hunter’s fur and met only by the cruel satisfaction of the nogitsune that coils at his throat. Its' keen eyes fixed on the bright spectacle of the dying hag.

Just as suddenly as it manifests, the lightning begins to fade. Sparks dissipating into the cool evening air and leaving nothing left but the Hag.

What's left of her.

A small pile of dark grey ash sitting in the roots of a yew tree, small chunks of bone peeking out from within the heap.

Aghast, Stiles stumbles backwards, the bat tipping and falling in his absence. It lands with a dull thud, rolling across the grass as the runes that run along its length power down. Their unnaturally bright hue fading until only the uniform black lines remain. The weapon almost seems to feign innocence.

("What does it mean, to call yourself innocent." A smile. "How arrogant.")

Stiles feels sick.

To kill her was his choice.

He doesn’t even think he regrets it that much.

But that doesn’t stop the lurching roll of disgust simmering, stagnant in the pit of his stomach.

It doesn’t stop the guilt.

At his neck, the nogitsune begins to cackle.

Eventually he stumbles away, bat in hand. His tired gaze searching for the road, before he finds himself back in a familiar clearing. Bare of anything but the remains of the Nemeton. The nogitsune huffs at his throat, unsatisfied with their position, but says nothing as Stiles settles on his knees, closing his eyes and pressing his fists to the lids. Ten minutes, he tells himself, just ten minutes.

Somehow, he'll try and pull himself together after that.

(Above the hag's remains, the tree begins to burn. A small circle of bark smoldering away until only a small, black mark is left behind.

A familiar tattoo.)

* * *

**.29.**

When Peter finds the bag, he immediately searches it. Regarding its contents with a knowing gaze before looking up at Stiles.

Familiar smirk returning full force.

(And no, Stiles is not fond of that smirk. He isn’t.)

"When you leave." Peter says, "I will follow."

It’s not a suggestion.

* * *

**.52.**

An hour later and Stiles still kneels at the roots of the Nemeton, gagging and shivering as he swallows down the bile that coats the back of his throat.

Every time he closes his eyes, all he can hear is the hag's screams as his magic sweeps across her body. Lightning simultaneously cleansing her magic and tearing at the seams which holds her together. At least there wasn’t any blood – thank god for small mercies.

He is a murderer, straight and simple. This isn't like with Hunter, or Peter even. When all of them worked together and fire roared in the wake of an arrow. Does Allison think like this, when she looks in a mirror?

This was a conscious decision. He made the bat, he did the research, he tracked her down. He swung the. No. he presses his fists, they'd fallen to his lap sometime ago, back over his eyes. Refusing to let himself slip back into that moment.

God. What would Scott say? Lydia? Derek? Will he ever be able to face his dad again -

A hand, deceptively gentle, moves to rest at his back. Rubbing at his shoulders as he shakes. Salty tears running down the length of his nose to fall and disappear amongst the foliage.

"A job well done, Mieczyslaw." Says Veles, almost amused, "I am so very proud of you."

He just wants to be alone. He doesn't want this, doesn't want the nogitsune or this god to be here. Maybe he doesn’t even want Hunter. Lurking nearby, faithfully loyal and waiting to be called. Because all Hunter will do is remind him of where he is now - of who he is now.

Stiles just wants to sleep.

This time, full of emotions that he can’t bear to name, he doesn't bother to hold back the vomit. Emptying his guts over the roots of the Nemeton. Does this make him a sinner?

Veles remains – thankfully – silent.

(The god stays by his side and Stiles adamantly refuses to be comforted by this. Because if he can find comfort in this - no. _No._ )

* * *

**.55.**

"School trip?" The sheriff asks, leaning over Stiles' shoulder to peer down at the leaflet on his desk. Stiles doesn't jump, he'd heard the man come in, but the closeness is odd. Strange. He doesn't think he's been this close to his dad since Gerard. And there was a longer stretch of distance before then, a much longer stretch.

"It’s for lacrosse," he reveals, realising he's spent a moment too long locked away in his head, "but I'm thinking of quitting the team. I don’t think I'll bother with this."

John stares down at him, long enough for his palm to slip from his son's shoulder. There’s understanding hidden in the depths of his eyes as they trace over Stiles’ cheek. Likely searching for a reminder of the blue-black bruise Gerard so kindly gifted him not that long ago. Even faded it manages to haunt Stiles.

"As long as you're happy and healthy." His dad finally says. "You can do what you want." As he moves to leave his jacket catches on Stiles’ car keys. Knocking them down from their precarious perch on the corner of his desk.

Both Stilinskis watch as they land on the carpet with a soft thud.

“If only you were this nice when I first started driving Roscoe.” Stiles can’t help but grin after a moment, still staring at the keys. “There was no talk of doing what I wanted when you were gripping that wheel ‘for my protection’ – which actually stopped me from driving the car by the way. Kind of counterproductive when learning how to drive, Dad.”

“I had my reasons.” His dad mutters, voice dark enough for Stiles to peer up, suddenly and inexplicably concerned. Did he say something wrong?

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah... of course you wouldn't-" The sheriff stops, staring down at Stiles before he lets his shoulders slump. Sighing as he shakes his head. He's still wearing his hat, it's crooked. Throwing his face into shadow. "It doesn't matter. everything is fine, just, uh. Do your thing Stiles. As long as you stay safe and don’t break too many laws then we'll be in the clear.”

“Will do, Daddio.” Stiles barks, pushing past his confusion and throwing up a snappy salute in an attempt to draw a smile to the man before he leaves.

It works but only for so long. Left alone in his room with only the nightmarish spirit of the nogitsune for company, Stiles feels oddly lost.

There’s a memory on the tip of his tongue but when he searches... it’s gone.

* * *

**.45.**

"I didn't want to die." Heather tells him, eyes wide and unblinking as they laze together on a grass covered hill. The sky above them cloudless, and the birds frozen in time.

"Not many do." Is Stiles' reply as he tugs at green strands. Careful to avoid looking at his childhood friend.

Afraid to see her blue tinged skin, still heart and scarred neck.

"But I did." Heather continues, happy to ignore Stiles' pessimism. That, if nothing else, is familiar enough to drag a weak smile to his lips. "And soon you'll forget me, Stiles."

"I won't forget you," he protests, still staring down, there's mud under his fingertips. Copper like old blood. "I may not remember you as a body, but I'll always remember my first friend.” He huffs. “The girl who dragged me into society. Half of the time without my consent."

Heather muffles a snicker into her palm, reaching out to push at his shoulder. "You were such a grumpy brat." She laughs, "Always stuck in your head with your imaginary shadow man. You should be grateful."

"I was." Stiles replies, honest, "I am."

There's a pause, like a switch being pressed down, and then -

"Then find whoever did this to me." Heather orders, voice suddenly shifting as she reaches down to cover his mud stained hand.

-the atmosphere abruptly sours, tension pressing down on Stiles’ shoulders.

He shivers.

Heather leans closer, frozen lips brushing his ear and he tenses. Forcing himself to remain still as the stench of rot floods and overwhelms his senses.

"And kill them." The ghost of his first friend continues, harsh and cruel. "Rip them apart, Stilinski, force their blood from their veins. Brand my name into their flesh and crush their hearts between your fingers. Bruise them, scar them, trap them in a nightmare of their own design, Stiles. Make them suffer as I suffered."

Stiles finally turns his head, meeting milky eyes as he swallows back a tidal wave of grief.

"I swear." He says. "That I will avenge you."

She’s almost beautiful when she smiles.

Almost.

(Almost is never good enough.)

* * *

**.16.**

"Who are you?" Peter whispers, limbs frozen as he kneels before the humanoid creature, staring up at sightless black holes. "What are you?"

There’s a man (maybe) stood before him. His hands curled around the edge of his white mask, antlers jutting forth in warning; as Peter watches he shifts the bone back into place and stalks closer. The bear pelt splayed out across his shoulders shifts with the movement; the scent of moss and fresh rain drifting across to Peter.

It hasn’t rained in Beacon Hills for three weeks.

Peter’s eyes track the man’s movements. Narrowing when a wide sleeve drifts to the side and offers a peek at the dark imprint of foreign words and runes stretched across skin. They’re somewhat familiar, he thinks, but he’s a layman in runes. Hardly even that. Peter lets his lip curl, leaning back on his heels. He may have to fix that.

"Why, I am your lord." The man says, "Your god. For all that you of lupine blood refuse to acknowledge me and my laws."

There’s another tattoo, Peter notices, aware of the other man to stalk a circle around him. His senses more than enough to compensate for the blindness when the man walks behind him – even if Peter isn’t a fan of giving anyone his back. At his throat is a small bear tattoo, dark and clear.

The grass is wet with dew beneath his knees. He still can’t move.

"Lord?" There’s a fire burning beneath the taut pull of Peter’s flesh as he bares his teeth. Thankful when the man comes to a halt, tilting his head to stare at him. It feels good to have some sort of recognition, even from a stranger. If he can’t stand – if he can’t fight – then he can have this at least. He's old blood, and he knows not to mess with the bigger names. Especially not those connected to the fey. But this man is an unknown, and Peter doesn't like unknowns. So he'll do as he wishes. If only out of spite. "If I have no family than I certainly have no lord. I am a lone wolf, stranger. Leave me out of your schemes."

Laughter rings true though the clearing, as the man pauses before gliding forward on soundless feet.

Long fingers grip at Peter's chin, forcing the former alpha's gaze upward. No matter how much he wiggles and fights, he can't slip out of the grip. Can do nothing more as his bones groan from where they're held tight in the man’s grip.

Peter isn't especially powerful, not after his coma and especially not after his resurrection, but he's still a werewolf. A predator. To hold him still like this, like it's nothing - who is this man?

"You are nothing." Croons the self-proclaimed lord, after a moment longer of just staring down at him. Like a man would an ant. He's taking obvious satisfaction in the sour flavour of Peter's scent as the Hale tries to push down encroaching panic. Unused to the feeling of having no control over a situation and even as he tries to hide it, fear simmers away in the pit of Peter's stomach. "Not now, not before and, unless you follow my orders? Not ever. My patience is not endless, son of Hale. Do not test it."

"What –" Peter swallows around a dry throat, scrambling for air when his captor stands. Hand still gripping his jaw as he casually lifts the wolf up into the air. He stands as tall as a giant, equal to an aspen tree, and Peter’s feet hover above the ground. Swinging. It's hard to speak. "What are you?" He rasps out, finally realising that he may be too deep.

He may have pushed his luck.

So soon after his death, Peter is not happy to be reminded of his continued mortality.

"I am your master, your Lord and your God." The man calmly reiterates, "And I have a task for you, wolf, so listen well. Unless you wish for that permanent death promised to you by my delegate, not too long ago."

Peter seizes, legs kicking into the air and lungs working in overtime as he drifts in place. Held in an iron grip. "Listening!" He desperately hisses, "I'm listening!"

"I suppose that will do for now." The man finally deigns to drop him. Allowing Peter to crumple back to the ground. Unceremoniously splayed out across the forest floor. He twists, claws gouging grooves into the mud as he presses his forehead to the ground and tries to breath. "You even fall to your knees of your own volition – how quaint. I was beginning to think you would falter before the size of your bothersome pride."

Peter swallows back a snarl, channeling his anger into the ground beneath him as he digs his claws deeper. Not bothering to stand. It doesn't seem worth the effort.

“I’m not that stupid.” He hisses out. Voice a croaking mess. “What is this task of yours?"

"A single task, a simple task." The lord drops down to a crouch, weaving fingers through Peter's hair in a poor facsimile of comfort. Peter wants nothing more than to rip his heart and feed it to him. Watch him try to spout out his pretty little words when he's choking on blood. The lord's grip tightens warningly, as though he knows exactly Peter is thinking, before he continues. "I want you to protect the boy who wanders through this forest wearing the name 'Stiles'."

"Protect Stilinski? That's... it? That's all?"

"Indeed," says the man in the deer skull mask, a smile in his voice as he grips Peters hair and tugs him upwards. The two voids in his mask effortlessly threatening. "I shall be most displeased if he is hurt "

Somehow, Peter should have known it was all that human's fault.

(All rumors are rooted in truth.)

("I'd like to get to know you better," says Peter Hale to Stiles Stilinski with a faded grin that twists his face into something that's not quite wolf.)


	4. I'll burn before you bury me

* * *

**.57.**

Stiles balances his elbow on his knee, rolling a tennis ball against the ground with his other hand. Watching the flashes of vibrant green peer out from beneath his fingers. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining bright, and the sky is clear.

Fuck, Stiles wants to be anywhere but here.

'What do you see?'

"People." He mutters, smothering a sigh into his palm and letting his gaze drift over the people crowded in the park. "Dogs. I don’t know. Why did you make me come here again?"

'I _made_ you do nothing.' The nogitsune announces, slipping from his shoulders to sit on the ground in front of him. Sparing the tennis ball a short glance before returning its' attention to Stiles. A single tail curled, almost daintily, across its' front paws. 'I simply informed you of you lacking abilities.'

Stiles rolls his eyes, dropping his voice even lower and hoping no one notices him talking to himself in the middle of the field. He already has a crap reputation - he doesn't want that sort of thing attached to his next terrible nickname. "You told me that I can't see for shit."

'You cannot.'

"The optician said dif - Oi!" The nogitsune blinks up at him, completely shameless as it lets its' tail resettle. Stiles rubs his hand over his eyes and grimaces, making a note to himself that nogitsune tails make surprisingly good blindfolds. "What was that for?!"

'Act in the manner of an imbecile and you shall be treated as such.' Is the fox's curt reply. 'You and I both know that I was referring to your magical senses. Not your pitiful human ocular capacities.'

Stiles makes a face. "Try sounding less like an asshole. I dare you."

He's spared from the nogitsune's reply when Hunter comes trotting back, tail weaving through the air with a mind of its' own as the hound grunts a greeting around a large stick. "Wow," Stiles says, laughter chasing his words, "Even a special one like you is still a dog in the end." He reaches forward, abandoning his tennis ball to stroke his fingers through the hound's coarse hair and pull out the stick. Placing it beside the nogitsune with a mischievous smile. "You fancy a game, fox?"

Stiles almost feels the need to check his pulse when the nogitsune sends him glare so venomous it could probably fell a giant.

"Right, right, don't purposefully antagonize the fox. I get it." Returning to Hunter, Stiles tugs at one of the dog's ears. "Keep yourself occupied for a bit longer, bud. I don’t think this guy's gonna let me off the hook anytime soon."

Hunter dips his head in acknowledgement - wow, he's so awesome. Stiles' should have gotten a pet years ago. Who cares if this one happens to be supernaturally inclined and capable of mass murder. They all have their hobbies. Trotting back towards some of the trees and investigating the roots with the precision of a surgeon. Or, you know, a normal dog.

Stiles refocuses on the nogitsune, lacing his hands together over his lap. He lets himself be a bit more serious, recognising that this is something that will benefit him in the long run. Even if it does suck having to take instructions from an incorporeal murder fox.

"How do you want to do this?"

'You will mostly be training yourself.' The nogitsune huffs, tapping a claw to the ground. Nose twitching when the action fails to produce a sound. 'Skills like this develop through exposure. Which means that your eyes will never be as effective as mine.' It gives him a sly onceover. 'Unless you're planning on living for a couple of hundred more years - _at least._ '

"Not quite at the top of my bucket list." Stiles mumbles, closing his eyes as he tries to look inwards. Picturing the warm heat of his spark an drawing the energy up. Higher and higher until it floods into his eyes. A burning sensation that prickles hot against his senses. He swallows, eyes flitting to and fro beneath the shelter of his eyelids, before finally opening them. Instantly assaulted by a barrage of _bright._

"Whoo." He whistles low, reaching up to rub circles into his temples. "It's always gonna be this disorientating?"

'Not quite,' the fox admits. 'You are lucky I am not within my true body. Had I not been locked within your heart right now. Well. You would be blind if you were lucky. Driven insane if not.'

"You're that powerful?"

'More than you could possibly imagine, human.'

Stiles hums, forcing his eyes to linger on people as they go about their days. He feels like he's starting to get used to things, not quite blinded by the flashes of colour. Instead, he narrows his eyes, watching a mother reach to pull a baby from a pram. "They're actually pretty dull."

'Of course they are, they are hardly trained in the arts. Ordinary humans are generally dim and worthless. With the odd one standing out with vibrancy for no other reason than chance. Truly,' it licks its' lips. 'They are only a worthy meal in their masses. Then, I suppose, they are worth my time.'

"Pleasant."

'Incredibly so.'

"So… how long a I going to have to sit here?" Stiles wonders, watching flat crimson writhe beneath a man's skin before his eyes flit over to the kids still arguing over the kite in the tree. Their colours, yellow and green, are only slightly brighter than the guy's.

'Well I suppose,' the fox clicks its' tongue and tilts its' head to the side. 'Till sunset at the very least.'

"Dude, it's barely eleven in the morning."

The nogitsune's little fangs gleam as it leers up at him. 'Get comfortable.'

* * *

**.54.**

Peter sits on the stairs, right leg folded over his left, and heroically resists the urge to roll his eyes. Half fearing that, if he follows through with the action, they may well roll straight from his head. Although... even a fate like that may be preferable to this train wreck.

Derek is pacing across the floor, like a good alpha does, distress obvious as he clenches his hands into clawed fists and then forces them to relax. Again and again, like a song set to repeat. Peter supposes that analysis fits his nephew a little bit too well - always furrowing his eyebrows and rehashing the same monologue about it all being his fault. He isn't wrong, but his self-pity act is quickly growing tiresome. No, Peter leans back, ignoring the metal step as it digs into his spine, it grew tiresome a long time ago.

Runaway Betas number one and two are curled up together on the couch. Snug as a rug in their fancy leather jackets and, in the case of number two, makeup plastered on like armor. In a place like this - in the company they're in - she just looks a bit foolish. They're both sending Derek worried glances at intervals. Peter still hasn’t narrowed down whether they're scared of their Alpha leaving, or scared of their alpha himself.

Good boy Scott, and his contingent of loyal followers, hasn't arrived yet.

He's late.

Peter can't even feign surprise at this point, knowing that the boy is unintentionally late to nine out of ten of these ridiculous get to togethers. He's not sure why - lord knows the boy hates letting people down. Even if he does hold a slight grudge against Derek, it's nothing compared to the hatred he holds for Peter himself - maybe it's the vet. Deaton is usually the one to look to when things start shifting behind the scenes. Or… Peter taps a nail to his bottom lip. Perhaps it's the boy's instincts that are guiding him. He's never actually met a werewolf that's survived a feral alpha's bite before. Things like that are generally considered archaic in their society. With either the hunters or a pack usually taking whoever's been bitten out to… look at the flowers. Lest the individual be afflicted with whatever made the alpha feral to begin with.

Could be something to look into.

Peter sighs, stretches, and braces his elbows on the step behind him. Letting his eyelids flutter down as he zones out of the situation. Comfortable to remain in the background until the stragglers deign to turn up.

(He's here to watch, to learn, and to catalogue every single one of their mistakes.

He's here to make nice - for Stiles if nothing else - not to _be nice._ )

* * *

**.48.**

"Darach." Peter twists the title over his tongue, once again reclining against Hunter with a book spread across his lap. One of the older tomes Stiles found in a charity shop in the fantasy section. His eyes don't leave Stiles as the boy stares into his mirror.

"That's it." Stiles replies, finally averting his gaze from the nogitsune's predatory regard and turning to face the werewolf. Fingers tapping a beat against his thigh. "According to Deaton – who eventually decided to impart his wisdom to us lesser mortals – there's a serial killer druid behind the murders. And they really have been setting up for a ritual. I even got a second opinion on it."

‘The blind wolf was certainly proud of himself for knowing of this creature’s species.’ The nogitsune snickers from the mirror. ‘A pity we already knew all we needed to know. How sweet his disappoint, at his own uselessness, was.”

With practiced ease, Stiles ignores the fox’s mutterings.

"Do you know which one? I narrowed down the possible rituals being enacted to around ten or so but I'm still not sure what exactly they were after." Peter asks.

Ten or so rituals that require human sacrifices, and that’s in this book alone. Stiles is so proud of his species, destroying itself from the inside out. One sacrifice at a time. All in the name of –

"Power." Stiles reveals, moving to flop down next to the wolf and melting into his duvet when long fingers reach down to comb through his hair. He stares up at his ceiling, suddenly finding the swirling paint to be the most interesting thing since sliced bread. "They're planning sacrifice after sacrifice and the ultimate goal is to have all that contained power flooding straight into their system."

"So, the question remains… who will they attack with this boost?" Peter muses. "And it will be a hell of a lot of power. Souls are worth their weight in gold for the magic held within them. Even those without supernatural inclination."

The nogitsune scoffs at that, muttering something about creatures with no taste for true delicacies, and Stiles ignores him. Again. 

"The human, well, Darach, equivalent of a nuke.” Stiles agrees, shifting to give Peter better access to his neck, "What's to bet that their target is a certain alpha pack that just happens to roll into town at the same time as them.” He offers a half shrug. Too comfortable to put too much effort into the movement. “It could be a coincidence but,” he grimaces, remembering Deucalion’s face as the man went into detail on the Darach that always seems to be just a step behind the alpha pack. “Nowadays I don’t think I believe in coincidences. Somehow, they've gotta be connected.”

“With the amount of packs they’ve attacked – most of them eradicated from existence – the Alpha’s likely have many enemies.”

“God, dude.” Stiles huffs a low laugh, still staring up at the ceiling though half-closed eyes. “Wouldn’t it be great if all of them just – I don’t know – took each other out. Leaving us out of it.”

"Careful." Peter chides through a smile as he peers down at him. Stiles tears his gaze away from the ceiling to stare back. "You're beginning to sound quite bloodthirsty, Stiles."

"Good." The boy replies quietly, rolling over and burying an answering smile into the wolf’s chest. His mind drifts to grey skin and tangled hair. A whispered oath to a dead girl. "I have a promise to keep."

* * *

**.40.**

Stiles slams the door of the jeep shut behind him, breaking out into a run as he clutches at the fire runes in his pockets. They're somewhat shoddy - he can't be blamed for that, not entirely. Shaky lines are a guarantee when you're trying to sketch out runes on the back of some receipts he'd found in the glove box. His knee, bouncing up and down with poorly held nerves, had certainly not made the process any easier.

But that's neither here nor there.

What matters is the thud of his trainers to concrete, breath fighting for freedom in his chest as he skids around a corner. Nearly slipping before he catches himself on a lamppost and continues sprinting forward. Peter doesn’t bother to draw ahead - they both know that his werewolf physique offers him an easy edge - choosing to remain arm to arm, leg to leg, with him as they thunder towards the bank. They'd figured out a loose plan in the jeep, and that plan required Peter to stick to him like glue. No shocking feats of werewolf physiology tonight, no sir.

It's a pity he couldn’t park closer, but he knows police patrols like the back of his hand. Thompson is on the beat tonight, round the back of the warehouse district, and Thompson never hesitates to report Stiles' escapades back to his father. Like the goddamned golden retriever that they whole department has named him for. Papa Stilinski has not been invited to this bank heist.

Stiles twists, practically throwing himself down an alleyway as he fishes through his hoodie pocket, dragging out some silencing runes. Hurriedly slapping one across his chest and the other to Peter's. Lips ticking up when the magic does as it's told and the symbol bursts in a small flare of green light. Leaving behind small, inkless paper squares that they both let flutter to the ground. Hopefully, he thinks to himself, continuing down the alleyway and peeking his head around the corner to where the bank stands in all of it's glory, this will be enough to give him a bit of an edge. It's a pity that he doesn’t know more, like an invisibility rune - or a scent blocker - but he'll make do with what he has. (And try to remember to look those up later on.)

There's a tap on his shoulder, and Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin. The hand, moving to clutch at the fabric of his jumper, is the only thing that stops him from stumbling forward out into the open.

"Dude!" He hisses back at Peter, craning his head back to meet blue eyes. "You scared the shit out of me!"

Peter doesn’t look particularly impressed, instead he almost looks… amused? Stiles' brows furrow. "What is it?"

All that gets him is a roll of eyes as Peter opens his own mouth to speak and says exactly nothing. Stiles cocks his head to the side, is Peter trying to start up a mime business? Because really - there's a time and place for these things. Peter moves, tapping his at his chest where Stiles had activated the rune and - oh.

Silencing rune.

Right.

Looks like he cocked that one up a bit - probably should of waited until they'd ironed out the plan before he broke it. Bit overeager.

Peter offers another roll of his eyes, long-suffering, before he raises his phone. A message typed out into the notes app. Stiles runs his eyes over it, ever aware of the time constraints they're working under, before he fires of a sharp nod. Flashing both of his raised thumbs in combination. He doesn’t bother to speak this time, feeling more than a little foolish. But Peter seems to take it in stride, pocketing his phone with a nod of his own before he gently prods at Stiles' shoulder and slips past him. Heading towards the bank at a casual lope.

They'd agreed, in the car, that it's better for Stiles to remain unseen for this part. For him to lay the ground work outside and try and keep out of the Alpha's notice. But it still stings like a bitch. Having to watch Peter disappear into the looming building without a backwards look.

He busies himself with tagging one of his fire runes the wall instead, warming up some blu tack beneath his fingers in a ramshackle attempt at improvisation. He backtracks, taking a right down another alley and then another. Repeating the process on alternating walls, trying to space out the runes evenly. Trying not to drop everything and gnaw at his nails as he waits for the signal from Peter. His own phone remains pointedly dark and not-vibrating in his pocket.

The nogitsune, balanced on his shoulders like normal with its' ears perked forward - unnervingly attentive - is no help. Craning its' head around every so often in the direction of the bank. Probably drawn in by all that misery, he thinks, tearing off another wad of tack and slamming it into brick with far more force than necessary.

His phone buzzes.

Stiles' head snaps up, eyes sliding closed as he focuses on the rune in front of him. Feeling the faint reactionary thrum from the other runes he's placed. An odd little circuit board of magic that reeks, distinctly so, of _Stiles_.

He wants fire; fire is exactly what he gets.

(Draws his hand down over his eyes as he squints, tries to see past the flare of bright heat that's sizzling away against the wall. Thinks - oops - he may have put a little more oomph into this than he planned to.

"Gee, Stiles," Peter will later drawl, wet cloth in his hand as he wipes at the soot clinging to Stiles' skin. "D'you really think so?")

There's a howl in the not-so-distant distance, returned by another and then another, and Stiles bares his teeth into a grin that's not entirely human.

(Just a little too feral)

* * *

**.53.**

Kali bares her fangs, the sudden growth to her exposed toenails strangely intimidating.

“I don’t know who you are.” She snarls out, muscles drawn so tight that Stiles thinks he might hear her bones creak, “I don’t care what you are. I just want you to stay away from Duke. He’s worth more than you. He’s beyond you."

At his throat the nogitsune shrieks. Its laughter warped and crooked.

“Of course, he is.” Stiles replies, honest even as the nogitsune's claws dig into his shoulder. The fox nearly falling from its' perch, caught up in its' hysterics. It's not laughing now, its' cackling. Exhaling amusement. A tail drags across the tip of Stiles' ear - it tickles. He wants to swat it away. He can't though, so he doesn’t. “But who are you to tell him he can’t seek _me_ out.”

The holes Kali scores into her palms are healed in seconds.

But her gaze, trained on Stiles back as he walks away, lingers for days.

(It takes ages for the nogitsune to stop grinning after that - little pest that it is.

No.

He isn’t _fond_.)

* * *

**.50.**

"Rituals." Stiles realises, running a hand through his hair. Beside him, Hunter raises his head, red ears pricked, to grumble at the disruption. "Sorry, dog," he laughs, "but I just realised, the deaths. They're all building up to some sort of ritual. Her body, when we went to see it. The mark… I don’t care what the others think, it was a sign. Had to be."

The Cŵn Annwn stares up at him, expression fathomless, and he's filled with the odd need to defend himself. Explain his thought process.

"I've got..." Stiles taps his fingers against his thighs in an irregular pattern, foot aching to join in. Create an orchestra of taps. "A personal interest in whoever is carrying out this ritual. They took one of mine, Hunter. I can't just ignore that."

The hound resettles, head heavy on Stiles' knee.

"Revenge is complicated," Stiles admits, "so I suppose justice will have to do."

(Is this really justice though? - Does it really matter?)

The shadow at his throat, bitter and cruel, twitches as it burns in disagreement. Remaining otherwise silent.

* * *

**.56.**

Peter's duty settles around his neck like a steel collar, the eyes of his proclaimed lord ever lingering at his back as he goes about his every day.

In between that, he begins his research. Combing through any and all resources in search of the slightest mention of the so-called god.

Peter pauses, fingers brushing against the spine of his latest acquisition. A focused study on the warding techniques of a small Mongolian tribe.

It’s something he hasn’t wanted to face; he doesn’t really want to think about it.

The possibility that Veles may well be some sort of higher power. He’d begun looking into it as soon as Stiles saw fit to divulge the horned man’s name. Committing every small detail of Veles into his memory. But nothing fits, not really. There is a god called Veles, a Slavic figure who bears a passing resemblance to the man in that clearing, but it doesn’t quite work.

Peter sighs, pushing the book back into place and letting himself collapse into his sofa. Sinking into the plush leather – so much nicer than the hospital bed that lingers in the shadows of his dreams – and rubbing his fingers over his forehead.

The bear pelt and tattoo; the hint of a beard lingering beneath Veles’ mask. They all fit within the image Peter’s research points towards. The attitude, so overconfident and manipulative, all point towards a trickster. Peter should know – his sister certainly accused him of possessing the same gimmicks all those years ago. So, Veles, a trickster god of the earth and waters and death. It should all fit.

Except.

Peter closes his eyes.

The mask.

There are so many – really, so many – accounts from hunters and supernatural alike that all spell out the same message. Reports that span over centuries. All reading, pretty simply, that God’s do not wear the marks of others. It’s beneath them, an insult unless gifted for a very specific reason. And ‘good reason’ generally entails some great quest and prophecy. The whole nine yards. Things that are recorded _somewhere_. By word or by book, or even by song. There has to be some sort of proof. Here - there is none.

So why is Veles wearing the mask of Cernunnos?

And the clothes, the colourful sash that looks almost Lithuanian in design. The Finnish waistcoat hidden beneath his thick pelt. The pan flute hanging from a long chain, tucked carelessly inside his shirt.

The tattoos wrapping around his arm, even that small glimpse that he’d been afforded in the moment, written in different scripts. Different languages. Different fonts. A sweeping feminine slope, some carefully printed capitals. Some cramped Lepontic beneath his thumb. 

It just doesn’t fit; Peter can’t wrap his head around it.

He heaves himself forwards, bracing his elbows on his knees and pressing his chin onto his clasped hands.

Besides his god shaped problem, there’s something that should – by all rights – be more manageable. A human shaped, teenager really, problem that has sunken its way underneath his skin and managed to achieve what few have achieved before.

Make Peter Hale care - just a little bit.

He’s not supposed to be enjoying his task.

He’s not supposed to have found a packmate in Stiles.

He'd been a fan of the mouthy human brat from the start, enjoyed the banter as he threatened the boy's life. Had even offered the gift of the bite – would he still be alpha if Stiles had accepted? – when he realised the boy's worth.

(If he closes his eyes, he can still feel the delicate warmth of the boy’s wrist between his fingers. The hummingbird flutter of the little human’s heart as he clenched his fists and grit his teeth. Daring Peter to wonder what colour his eyes would be after the bite.

Certainly, Peter somehow knows, not gold.)

He supposes that genuine enjoyment from the time he spends with Stiles Stilinski is not the worst of outcomes. But it still rankles. Still leaves him pondering alone in his apartment, staring forward and wondering if this is all a part of ‘Veles’’ plan. The thought of that, of playing to someone else’s tune, is beyond frustrating. Worrying, to think that his decisions may mean so little.

(What’s really worrying is the small splash of dark ink on Veles’ inner wrist. Small and oh so terrible, but ultimately nothing more than a few words. That just so happen to be written in the spidery handwriting of Stiles Stilinski.)

* * *

**.41.**

"My name is Cora." She says, tipping her head up and staring him down, unrepentant as she catalogues him. Her hair falls with the movement, shadowing her eyes. They're all the brighter for it. "Cora Hale."

"Yeah I know, dude." Stiles drawls, leaning against the door frame, "I was there at the grand reunion. Helped facilitate the whole shebang actually."

"You're powerful." Says the she-wolf. Ignoring him - dull. "And Peter is here. So you've got two things I want."

“I wants, don’t get.” Stiles chides around a raised eyebrow.

Cora forges on. Ignoring him. "Power for revenge, plus the chance to reconnect with my favourite uncle." She lip curls and it's almost enough to hide her uncertainty, the twitch of her fingers and the way her jaw clenches. "You're an idiot if you think you're getting rid of me when those are the cards on the table."

"How rude." Says Stiles, as he smiles and opens his door.

* * *

**.81.**

“Are you doing okay?”

Allison rubs at her eyes, rims already red, the bags beneath them a dull purple. The very picture of exhaustion.

“I’m fine, Stiles.” She smiles, lips pursed thin as she raises a hand to brush back a greasy strand of hair. Fingers shaking.

He grins and pretends he believes her. Hiding his grimace behind her back as she turns. She walks on unsteady feet to her next class and Stiles begins to scheme.

* * *

**.58.**

“Closer looms the tipping point.” Veles whispers, fingers clenched around a gleaming sliver object. “Closer looms the catalyst for your end, Mieczyslaw. I do wonder, how long until you break?”

He leans in, his furs falling to brush against Stiles’ exposed elbows. The forest is silent, a bubble of false serenity lingering in their shadows.

“Whatever decision you’re saying I’m about to make,” Stiles says, pushing himself to his feet. The movement forcing Veles to dance back, his mask pushed back to reveal a sharp toothed grin. Eye narrow and filled with callous amusement. “It’ll be mine and mine alone. Nothing –” the boy pokes at the god’s bear fur, lip curling “– to do with you.”

Veles tilts his head to the side as he slowly reaches up and restores his mask to its rightful position.

“A shame and yet, so...” the god suddenly convulses, gripping at his stomach as his shoulders shake. It takes a moment for Stiles to recognise that the bastard is laughing. Loud guffaws ripping through the quiet. “Exciting! Exhilarating! Thrilling! I haven’t had this much fun in years! Centuries! Again.” A pause as the god falls unnaturally still. Abruptly serious as he continues in a whisper. “It’s you.”

(The lord laughed and the forest followed suit. The lord was silent and the forest... was not.)

Stiles clenches his fists through his confusion and pretends he remembers what freedom feels like.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading up to here :)
> 
> This whole thing is actually already complete and probably the largest piece I've written so far. Starting as a series of unconnected drabbles that grew legs and decided it wanted to have a plot. Much to my annoyance. Chapters will be uploaded as I edit them and once complete I'll probably post the whole thing in order in a separate fic. For those who prefer chronological and don't like the more disjointed - put it together by reading them in this random order - thing I've got going on. 
> 
> The editing isn't going to be perfect either - I'm a human-shaped bag of mistakes... that's a thing now I guess.
> 
> (I'm also an idiot and have decided that uni essay time is the perfect time to start editing my works :) ain't I smart?)
> 
> A review is appreciated - I've been trying to improve my confidence and actually start responding.


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